


A Reservoir of Rusted Copper

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Explicit Language, Hair-pulling, Hurt No Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 26,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26435281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Below the ruins of Old Vizima laid stores of abandoned troves. Armories closed off by crumbled stone, catacombs that ghouls had long picked clean, and caves that had once held elven marvels. Forgotten when the Striga was born and cleaved through men; Sealed and erased from tomes to discourage any more looting and death.But stone degrades at a rate matched by the age of the earth, and sometimes it only takes a few moved boulders to reveal a crack in a wall.(AKA, a collection of scraps, drabbles, and notes that have been collecting dust on a harddrive.)
Relationships: Foltest/Vernon Roche
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. Severe Eleutherophobia (Foltest & Roche)

**Author's Note:**

> To the Rabbits - I don't deserve you; And to my Demons - I know you'll never leave.

Cold didn’t begin to describe how he felt. Cold was a term used to describe ground conditions or the state of corpses found lost in the snow. Of things that had been living but perished under a myriad of conditions that rendered them in a form without heat. It was an adjective; a statement. He was not cold.

 _He was fucking frozen._ In every sense of the word.

He had turned from a man into a gods-damned fucking walking block of ice, whose breath came out in wheezes, and with fingers that struggled to grip any plausible surface. Whose clothes were bloody well molded to his body, stiff and irregular, with a solid chunk of steel hurting his back every time he bent the wrong way and the metal nipped at his skin through thin cloth.

It wasn’t bloody planned - no, nothing like this was. Any idiot could look up and make a judgement of the weather conditions and know not to go out. Dark clouds turning milky gray at night’s end, the silence snowfall brought, the heat in the air before it was slowly sucked away after snow had fallen, rendering the land into a thick sheet of inhospitable, bleak white. He knew the signs of storms and winter like any drunk farmer and the cold that would inevitably come. He wasn’t a complete fool.

Only when he had left Ban Glean, fully prepared so his crossing of the Kestrel Mountain pass would go smoothly, things changed. Like they always fucking did. He had furs and a thick pouch of dried meats, his body insulated, and a thick blanket for his gelding. But, as always, whatever luck he amassed over the days went completely into the shitter as soon as he had the smallest thought of getting home. Honestly, at this point, he should have expected it, yet he was still naive in that regard. He still thought getting to Vizima without issue after a mission would be the _easy_ part of his journey. How wrong he was.

It started with a Cockatrice killing his gelding while he was up the road. Everything went downhill from there.

The bandits were a nuisance. He lost the short wolf cloak he had - cut to pieces, sadly - before he could properly counter the bastards and let their blood stain his boots. Idiots barely had anything worthwhile on them, and he disregarded the gloves they held, a decision he would later come to regret.

The Ghouls lurking around slaughtered caravans were annoying at best. Easy to avoid, but he had to trudge through deep snow to do so, filling his boots twice and suffering for it. The second night, he attempted to warm his feet, but the biting frost that came prevented him from doing so fully. He was left curled in a ball under the boughs of a fir, cursing his luck and dreaming of Temeria. When daybreak came and he saw blue sky, he honestly thought things would improve.

Gods, he was an idiot sometimes. Of course things didn’t.

The kicker came when he was trying to cross the Pontar near Flotsam. In retrospect, he should have continued to follow to road, or even cross near Hagge and take the long way to Vizima, but he was growing weary of foreign lands and not in the mood to deal with Scoia’tael pricks or desperate frozen bandits. He had planned to grab a horse in Flotsam - like the locals there could tell him no - and ride home when he was attacked. Not by a hoard of elves - though, in hindsight, he wished he almost was - nor by a bear, wolves, a troll, or something magnificent or ballad worthy, like a Leshy.

No, he was attacked by a single fucking Nekker. One that was about as half-frozen as he was, and desperate to eat something. That was what caused him to crash into the Pontar River after slipping to avoid its claws, his body breaking the ice to drop under like a sack of grain, the water immediately punching him in the gut. 

A single. Fucking. Nekker.

Gods, he hated the wilds.

If he didn’t have his sword out when it happened, he would have surely have drowned. To make a long story short, he lost his other good fur - thick, coarse bear fur. Skellige made. Fucking beautiful thing - his food, enough blood to make him horrifically dizzy, and his coin purse, which was supposed to last him until he got back. He looked like the walking fucking dead when he managed to crawl to Flotsam, his body shaking violently and his breath causing icicles to form on his eyelids. And what awaited him there?

The local drunks, wanting a fistfight with a ‘Drowner’. Needless to say, the teeth marks on his knuckles still weren’t healed, even if he managed to come out of it with only a few bruises and three men laying near-dead on the ground. But in winter, in a town like Flotsam, it didn’t matter how bad of shape you were in, or who you served. No coin? No help. Didn’t matter if he won a fistfight and survived the Pontar. The only thing that had any value in Flotsam was circular and golden.

Blue Stripes Commander? Who cared.

_Who cared._

He nearly fucking froze to death making his way back to Vizima. One didn’t ‘hang their clothes to dry by the fire’ when fire would surely attract every manner of being wanting to feast on blood and bones.

That was the state he was in when he came to the palace, with his body numb, his left hand too painful to move, and the bruise over his eye growing an even uglier purple than it had been before. He probably looked like a bloody corpse risen from the grave, but the hell if he cared at that hour. The moment he reached the steps, the guards looking to him like he was some mangled beast they needed to boot in the ass, he got his voice back.

Ragged. Parched. _Pissed._

“Halt! Who goes-”

“Get the fuck out of my way, Felix,” he immediately spat, his lips cracking painfully. He tried not to lick them, but it was a subconscious movement by his tongue. One that only made him wince. “I said move!”

The blonde idiot blinked, his face turning red, before his partner moved forward, his halberd scraping the ground.

“Commander Roche, is that you?”

He glared at them both. He wasn’t in the mood.

“You look like shit,” Felix said.

He punched him in the neck.

It wasn’t hard - how the fuck could it be, he could barely make a fist with his right hand? - but it was enough to put his point across, which was he wasn’t in the fucking mood. As soon as Felix fell over fully, coughing rapidly, his halberd falling to the ground, Roche shoved past him, throwing his shoulder against the door to open it, a motion that made his teeth grit at how weak he had gotten. The massive doors felt like they were made of solid marble, and he only opened them enough to squeeze in, like a rat trying to get into the laundry.

The warmth that hit him almost made him fall to his knees. It burned his exposed skin like a flame had been shoved against his skin, raw and painful. No, it felt more like he had fallen in the Pontar again, only this time, the water was colder than the peaks of the Blue Mountains. It warmed him for a second before the pain of what his body had been through began spreading, indicating what parts of him were dangerously close to being forever frozen. His bottom lip began to bleed, splitting open as he licked at his lips in desperation, gulping in the air. Bits of ice fell from his lashes, his clothing crunching under his movements, and he awkwardly moved into the keep, his body nearly seizing up as his feet somehow moved him along. Gods, he missed Temeria.

“Commander Roche?” he heard a voice say. One of the guards standing at the polished marble pillar came forward, looking to where the massive wooden doors closed behind him, at the sounds of Felix coughing and the other guard patting his shoulder. He said nothing, though it took him a moment to recognize the soldier, ignoring the eyes of the others standing near, their hands looking all too eager to brandish their weapons.

The guard was Mikhael something-or-other. Good soldier, if not a bit stupid, like most of them.

“Do you have any idea what time it-”

“Where’s King Foltest?” Roche cut him off, licking his lips again, the pain and taste of blood warning him not to do it again. Mikhael frowned.

“He’s in his chambers. He-”

“Thanks,” was all he said, and he shuffled around him, knowing where to go.

“Wait, Commander-”

“Go back to your post, soldier, before I make you,” was his only reply. He didn’t damn well come in the state he was in to be held up by a lesser rank. He damn well had been sent out for a reason, and his highest priority at that moment was to his king, frozen or not. Besides, he knew Foltest’s schedule better than anyone, especially as of late. It wasn’t past midnight, not yet, meaning his King would be up. If he wasn’t, well. He’d take the lecture he was bound to recieve.

Thankfully, as he predicted, his King was not sleeping. Quite the opposite. When he barged into his doors, ignoring the guards behind him still yelling, one sporting a red cheek where his fist had landed, his eyes met with King Foltest of Temeria, Prince of Sodden, Soverign of Pontaria and Mahakam, protector of Brugge and Ellandar. A lengthy title he was in no way obligated to remember, but he did so anyway. This was his king above all, ruler of the land he loved, and he barely blinked at the sight of him standing calmly before the roaring fireplace.

Tall, strong. _Regal._

If he could, he would have dropped a knee, but his legs were beginning to feel the effects of the warmth of the castle and were locking up. All he could do was give a short nod of his head before the tips of halberds came at him from behind. Seemed the whoresons didn’t get his growled message of ‘Out of my way’.

“We said _halt_!”

Idiots.

And yet, Foltest merely quirked a brow. As if he was used to this.

Technically speaking, he was, but it wouldn’t befit a King to admit one of his Commander’s routinely barged into his personal quarters. “Roche. You look like shit.”

He only breathed out, ignoring the halberd tip aimed toward the back of his neck. Again, the idiots. Did no one teach them not to point a weapon like that at someone who could easily grab it and disarm them? He was going to have to have a word with Natalis. “Forgive me, your Majesty,” he said, licking his lips once again, enduring the pain. “I got delayed near Flotsam.”

“Delayed?”

“Delayed.”

Foltest didn’t inquire, though his cheek twitched like he was going to smile. As if he knew exactly how he went down. Instead, his eyes merely went to the guards behind Roche’s shoulder, his hand raising to flick at them.

“Stand down, you two. If you can’t recognize the Commander of the Blue Stripes, then consider your positions forfeit at morning light to more capable men.”

Immediately, they pulled back, the one bowing deeply.

“F-Forgive us, your Majesty, but he-”

“Is a prick, and a bastard, and whatever else you want to call him. I know,” Foltest interrupted. Roche said nothing, though his cheek did twitch involuntarily. If the soldiers thought they could call him just anything, they’d sport more than bruised skin. “But he is here on my orders. Just not at the time I would have expected.”

The idiots still hesitated. Roche let out a breath between his teeth.

“You two are dismissed. Is that not clear?” The one with the red cheek shot him a look. As if he cared. “Leave!”

Foltest chuckled. “Roche. Be a little kinder.”

He sniffed; not out of indignation, but more out of necessity as he felt condensation building up on his upper lip. The feeling was coming back in his nose and he could smell the burning wood from the fireplace and a hint of juniper. Strange. As always, he chose to be silent, he didn’t need to explain himself to lowly soldiers, but he did give them a hesitant look as if they should figure it out that he wasn’t in the mood to act like he cared for them. The one sporting the red cheek narrowed his eyes. Another soldier who detested him to be added to the ever-growing list.

Luckily, the idiots got the message, and after a moment, they closed the door behind them as they left, finally leaving him alone with his King.

Immediately, he coughed, his throat growing raw, his bones aching as they thawed.

“I did mean what I said,” Foltest said, looking into the fire for a moment before he started to loosen the thick robe around his shoulders. Dark blue stained wool with delicate white fleece hooked into the underside. Soft, heavy, and most importantly, warm. “You look like shit, Roche.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, breathing in the smoke of the room, his feet starting to hurt, his cheeks itching as they defrosted. “I preferred to come to you as soon as I could instead of changing clothes.”

“Clearly,” Foltest said, shrugging off the robe before he turned it, nodding at him. “Come here.”

He obeyed.

“Sit. By the fire.”

He obeyed again, his legs giving out at the last second so his ass hit the warm stones hard. He merely grit his teeth and sniffed, feeling the crack on his lower lip grow. Of course he licked it. He had to stop.

“Get those wet rags off,” Foltest said, tossing the robe at him, and the thick fleece hit the side of his head with a soft ‘thump’, immediately warming the icicles and frost that had built up on his chaperon. “And don’t fight me on it, Roche. Shut your mouth. I’d rather have you alive and warm before you tell me what you learned than frozen, sniffling, and ill.”

He sighed. “If that’s what you wish, your Majesty.”

“It is. Now get on it.”

He obeyed, as always. Foltest’s word was law, even if he would have preferred to immediately tell him of what he knew before he succumb to the feeling of exhaustion clawing at the back of his skull, something that was a real possibility. However, he endured. Like a good Commander should.

Of course he struggled at first, especially with his belts. His fingers uselessly clawed at the frosted steel until he finally managed to dig his nail under the hook and pull. Once they slackened on his body, it was easier to pull at the strings tying his gambeson to his frozen frame, though not by a lot. In the time it took him to peel the padded, foul-smelling fabric from himself, his King had fetched a chair, a table, and a bottle of lukewarm ale from his desk. He could smell the gruit from where he sat, his nose now running, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, the sensation alone making him shudder. His face burned and he scratched at it.

“Stop that,” Foltest said. He let his hand fall away, though he did manage to quickly rub his cheek on his shoulder when his King turned to fetch a mug. Gods, it stung, but in a way that he could easily endure and he knew would feel better later. He did it again before his ruler came back, his throat growing hungry with need at the sight of the bottle.

“Here,” Foltest said, handing him a mug. He drank it all in one, silent chug. “Take mine as well.”

He didn’t protest. Even if it did make his head swim slightly and his mouth parched for more liquid - water, perhaps, or something non-alcoholic - the fire that spread down his throat and into his stomach felt better than if he had taken a draught of elixir. Even when it was lukewarm, Temerian Ale still tasted better than every other bloody bottled thing in all the lands. And that included Toussaint.

Foltest ended up placing the bottle beside him, and he held it with shaky hands, still trying to get feeling back into his limbs. The tips of his fingers were the worst, and more than once he pressed them against his cracked lips, trying to ease them back from their numbness gently rather than endure how blistering they felt.

“Where did you go under?” His King finally asked, moving to sit down. He was in his nightwear - muted hues that made him blend into the darkness - but he still, ironically, looked serene and noble. As if his state of clothing couldn’t affect his royal status. Roche merely sighed again, rubbing the tip of the bottle against his sore, cracked lips. He probably looked like a drowned mutt in front of him. Fuck, he should have changed or something. It wasn’t like one of his frequent stops where he holed up was that far away.

“Near Flotsam.”

“How much did you lose?”

“Not anything important,” he said quietly. “The papers are fine-”

“Roche.”

His cheek twitched, but he went silent.

“What supplies and clothing did you lose?”

“…Nothing I can’t buy back.”

It was his King’s turn to sigh. Honestly, even if he admitted he lost his good furs, he still hated taking from Temeria’s coffers. The money was always better spent on swords and machinery than soldier’s lost wares from them being idiotic. It wasn’t as if he was a penniless vagabond either. He had his coin hidden in places he could easily withdraw it from.

Replacing the Skellige cloak, however… He’d have to take a loss on that.

“Vernon,” Foltest said, making him wince at the sound of his first name. That usually meant his King was exasperated with him. Or ready to tear him a new one. “Our of all my subjects, you are the one I trust the most with having access to my accounts. I know you better than anyone. Take out a few hundred orens - call it a bonus. And wipe that look off your face.”

He wasn’t even aware he was making one until he forced himself to relax. Clearly, his expressions had spoken for him.

“You barely ask for anything. It’s the least I can do.”

At that, he let out a scoff, his head turning to try and let his neck absorb some heat from the fire, the thick robe around his shoulders doing its work to thaw his back. “I serve Temeria, your Majesty. If anything, I should sacrifice more for her, not take away.” He tried not to frown at Foltest shaking his head from the corner of his vision. “But I didn’t come here for that. Or coin. Or to talk about my current state-”

“Clearly.”

He flushed at Foltest’s words. “-I came to tell you what I gathered in Kaedwen. About the nobles.”

“And?”

Roche paused for a moment, placing the bottle of ale down. Not out of hesitation or fear, but more for the fact that his fingers were bothering him. He moved to press them under his arms, the act making him hiss under his breath before he moved closer to the fire. His King didn’t comment on it, thankfully, and he didn’t offer any apologies.

“Seems you were right. Dethmold and his little entourage have earned quite the scorn amongst the nobility, though no one really has the balls to outright say it. At the moment, I don’t blame them. Got word the lunatic mage made a bit of a spectacle of a soldier who got too drunk to hold his tongue at one of Henselt’s banquets. Something to do with… turning the man inside out, or something. It was enough to put morale at the palace even lower than it had been,” he cast a backwards glance to his king. “Much to our advantage.”

Foltest said nothing, though he could see his King was thinking over his information. Roche continued, turning back to stare at the fire as he did, the soft flames glinting against the cold steel on his body. “I offered a few of the nobles coin for information, as you recommended. When they were drunk, of course, trying to forget their king is an idiot-”

“Henselt’s ambitious, but not an idiot, Vernon.” He had to turn to gape at his King for his statement. Foltest gave him a wry smile. “He’s impressive on the battlefield.”

“He killed his men with his own sorceress.”

“Is that what the word is?”

“For now,” he admitted. “I haven’t looked deeper into what happened with… whatever her name was. Sabriel or something. What I’ve heard in Ard Carraigh is-”

“Vernon,” Foltest cut him off once more. “You’re going off rumors heard in a city? That’s very unlike you. You know how peasants like to exaggerate things, especially if there’s bards around to fuel their fancy.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly, his red, itching cheeks growing hot, and not from the fire. “But I wasn’t about to go down to the battlefield and see what happened. There’s enough ghouls around there to make a Witcher richer than Redania.” Foltest didn’t comment. “I just brought it up because…” He frowned. How did they get on that conversation topic? Something about Henselt? “…Right. The people aren’t pleased with their king. The nobles aren’t pleased. In fact, they’re downright pissed and ripe for suggestions.”

“And what did you suggest to them?” Foltest asked. Roche merely shrugged, digging his fingers into his side, feeling how cold they were compared to his core, before he withdrew them. They were getting warmer - enough that they didn’t burn as intensely as his poor covered feet or ass - and he flexed them over and over again, as if he was grabbing the handle of a sword.

“That Nilfgaard will be at their borders soon if they don’t figure something out. They scoffed at me, but I saw some of the women grip their men’s arms. One or two of the pompous bastards exchanged a few looks.”

“What type of looks?”

“Good ones,” he almost smiled. “Ones that men who fear for their life and coin make to each other.” At that, he moved to grip the bottle of ale - properly this time - and he took a slow drink, the liquid penetrating the cuts on his lips, burning them harshly before rushing down his throat. Color was returning to his body, his legs didn’t feel like hunks of stone - though his feet were still numb and itching from the cold - and he found himself taking another drink. Foltest merely watched him, like a hawk would watch a lesser falcon trying to catch its first mouse. Slightly amused, though there was a clear tone of exasperation hiding in his eyes. Not from what he told him, but clearly from how fast he was drinking down the ale.

He wasn’t addicted to it. He just had gone too long in foreign lands with watered down beer that tasted like piss to stop himself from practically inhaling the ale. It left him slightly dizzy, though warm, and he found himself smiling at the fire. “If I can get a few of them to feed me information, I think there could be an interesting impact in Kaedwen.”

“Impact?” Foltest asked. Roche nodded.

“That’s what we’re after, isn’t it?”

“If that’s what you wish to call it,” Foltest agreed. He didn’t press it.

“Well, let’s just say a few more trips, and few more loose tongues, and there will be something happening. I’ve already got interest from one man - Kirim, I think his name is. He didn’t outright say it, but he seemed to be more cautious about throwing his word in so early. Time is needed, your Majesty, but I’m going to predict that not much will pass before I get a message asking to meet somewhere dark and cold with a noble wrapped in black cloth.”

Foltest once again went quiet, thinking it over, his hand moving to stroke under his bottom lip, his intense eyes furrowing. It gave Roche a moment of pause, where he could focus on himself. He was defrosting, growing drunk on ale, and itching for something he couldn’t put his finger on. Action? Information? Something in his gut was stirring, exciting him for what was to come. Not that he was in the business of toppling kings, but if the rumors of Dethmold were even slightly true, it was clear Temeria’s best interest would be to limit him and Kaedwen from thinking they could try something.

Despite what the piles of shit said about them, Temeria did have access to the coast. Not as much as Redania, but enough that trade was steady. The lands of the nation were also rich with fields. Forests that housed ancient monsters had been limited. Rarely did the populace fear walking outside at night. Markets were busy, little brats were everywhere - and in everything - and horses were breeding enough that groups had gone feral. Temeria was a host to milder conditions than Kaedwen and Redania, more cropland, trade routes to Cintra, rich ores from quarries and mines. Any idiot, King or not, knew that it was a prize land. Maybe not as much as the Pontar Valley, but enough that if greedy eyes turned to it, it would become a nuisance on the treasury. Especially if the greedy eyes came from a king that trusted a lunatic as their mage and let their army burn from its allies. 

He shuddered slightly at the thought of Henselt touching his King’s throne. Swine wasn’t even good enough to set foot in their palace. Foltest’s plan to disrupt him needed to work.

He drank deeply from the bottle, finishing it off after a moment, the liquid now soothing the small pockets left on him that were still sore and burning from the cold. He ran his thumb over his eye, testing how much it hurt before he determined he probably needed to sleep on his left side that night. His ribs were rather tender, and his forearm muscles were stiff. He thought he had pulled something when he stabbed his sword into the ice in the river, but it hadn’t been enough to bother him until that point. Now it felt like someone had taken his sinew and stretched it as tight as they could from his elbow to his wrist. Nothing he couldn’t sleep off, but he had to be gentle with it. If he fucked it up, there really wasn’t any other job he could do. Other than, maybe, town alcoholic, and he wasn’t too interested in that.

Without thinking, he cracked his neck.

“Vernon,” Foltest said, making him pause. Right. He forgot how his king absolutely hated him doing it.

“Apologies, your Majesty.”

He didn’t reply. Nor should he.

Quietly, Roche went back to watching the fire, the golden and rough flames licking soot-covered bricks and blackened logs, a soft roar coming from the chimney, fanning the heat in random intervals, but otherwise staying steady, warming Foltest’s chambers and the stones nearby. His Majesty’s robe slipped down his back slightly, chilling him, and he found himself pulling it around his shoulders, the atmosphere luring him into a strange sense of peace. He was supposed to be ever vigilant - Foltest’s lapdog, or ‘bitch’, as the men liked to call him - but the fire, the warmth of the fleece, the silence, and his general exhaustion and slight drunkenness were making his eyes drop and his guard lessen.

When his King moved, he barely reacted. He didn’t even flinch when Foltest reached down to grab his jaw and turn it so he could look at him, his head tilted so the King of Temeria could see his blackened eye.

“Who did that?”

Roche merely snorted. “Someone who looks a lot worse than me.”

“I doubt that,” his King murmured, yet there was a clear look of pride hiding in his eyes. As if he knew whatever had been done to him, he had given back twice as hard. They fell into silence, his eyes glazing over slightly as his king turned his head to the side again, studying him, and for a moment, he wondered if he shouldn’t say something. After all, he knew Foltest was generous, but the way he was studying him, it felt… strange.

Maybe it was the ale. He hadn’t eaten in days and consuming alcohol on an empty stomach was stupid at best. Still. His cheeks grew hot under Foltest’s gaze, and he found himself staring past him, to the ceiling.

Was that imported stained spruce or Temerian? He couldn’t remember. Gods, but it was a hell of a lot better than the stinking pine in Kaedwen. Fuck, he missed Temeria. He missed _home_.

“In a few weeks, make the journey back,” Foltest finally said, still holding his jaw in place, making him meet his eyes. He tried to sober up, but his head was swimming with froth and fire. “Press this Kirim fellow, and see what you can do. If there are supporters of Nilfgaard in Henselt’s court, turn the others on them. Keep Henselt busy with his court affairs, Vernon, and find a way to get rid of that mage.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” he said. His words slurred a bit, but he meant it. The task wasn’t going to be easy, but realistically, he was one of the few who could do it. Well, there was another, but everyone knew his methods were… obtuse at best. Besides, Henselt’s court was rather… primp, compared to theirs. A man with a monocle saying ‘cocksucker’ would definitely stand out.

Foltest’s hand drew away, only to reach up and brush over his forehead, pushing at the cloth that covered his scalp. He frowned, his brows fixing as air began cooling his head - gods, it felt weird - and he did nothing as his king pulled off his chaperon, exposing his short, hastily cut hair. It felt wrong for it to be parted from him, like someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water over his head, yet he was still too drunk and cold to protest. His face, however, must have been making a displeased expression, because he saw his King stifle a chuckle. It only made his lips press thin, the crack opening more. Fuck it all.

Foltest merely grinned. “You’re getting some gray hairs, my friend,” he said, nodding at his temples. It sobered him up fast and he didn’t try to hide the flush that crossed his face. “I suppose we’re all growing old, yet I still remember you spitting at my feet like it yesterday, dressed in a muddy shirt and blackened trousers.”

His entire face was now hot with embarrassment. “I was a stupid kid.”

“You were,” Foltest chuckled. “Now look how far you’ve come.”

He didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t disagree, but more on how he didn’t really know how to respond without sounding like a prick. His silence was met with a soft breath from his King - out of amusement? Enjoyment? - before his hand moved up and ruffled his hair as if he was one of his hounds. It made him stiffen, yet he didn’t pull away.

“Sleep here tonight, Roche. I don’t want you going back to that rathole you call a home. And yes, I do know about it, so close your mouth. In the morning, we’ll head to the treasury and see what can be pulled for you to go tempt the nobles of Kaedwen with. You’re also bathing first thing tomorrow.”

He flushed. “Your Majesty, I don’t need-”

“This is a command, Vernon. Not a suggestion.” He slowly let his mouth close. The King’s word was final and he could never disobey a command. “Go to sleep.”

“…As you wish, your Majesty.”

Of course he didn’t right away. He pulled his chaperon back on when his King’s back was turned to him, and he used his elbow as a pillow until one came flying at him, hitting him in the back. Only when he had curled up near the fire like a dog - the irony was not lost on him - did he hear Foltest’s voice in the dark, his head sinking against the embroidered Temerian lily.

“And Vernon?”

“Yes, your Majesty?” he said, staring at the flames, his cheeks still red, his fingers buried in the fleece, tangled into it like the claws of a cat. There was a silence that followed, the wind sucking air from the chimney, forcing the fire to glow for a moment before it settled back into its flickering, hungry form.

“Good work.”

He closed his eyes.


	2. Seared (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 4th, 2018.

His ear was tugged again, making him snap out of his lust-drenched haze, his breath still coming out in pants as he clenched hard around his King in turn. He was too drunk on what they were doing and they both knew it; It had been too long since he had occupied the King’s bed.

“Vernon,” Foltest growled at him, sending a shudder down his back. Gods, he was going to collapse if he didn’t get fucked until he couldn’t see, and the angry tone only added to his fever. When Foltest was angry, he was in trouble and it was not a good position to be in. “Answer me.”

He forgot the question he was even being asked, his tongue swiping over his lips for a second as he tried to think. Only his thoughts were on Foltest’s cock, still inside him, pulsing. Hot. _Thick._ He gulped for air, unable to come up with anything other than a string of whimpering moans and clenching around his king, trying to make him understand. Had he counted the days since they had last bedded? He knew them off by heart. It was-

“Roche,” Foltest snapped, and he trembled, trying to focus. All he found was the dark shrouded eyes of his King burning a hole into his head. Waiting for him to stop being so mindless and stupid and do his duty in answering. But words failed him and he stumbled for ground, his cheeks growing hot with shame he was making his King irritated.

_But he always fucked him better when he was._

“I-I’m… I-?” he tried. He honestly didn’t know what to say. He just wanted his King to plough him - No, breed him. He could replace Maria; He’d let Foltest come where he wanted and not complain, any time, any where. Just as long as he filled his insides and dominated him until he couldn’t stand and treated him like he promised.

Maybe he should have worked the brothel instead of his mother. It was enough of a wounding thought to make him shake his head and try and focus on what was going on. Yet all he could think of was one thing.

_Cock._

“Your Majesty,” he tried again for an explanation but it was too late. He yelped when his hair was pulled, forcing his head back at a cruel angle, his body to tensing in response as his Majesty’s hand - strong and forceful - dug into his skull. His ear was grabbed between harsh teeth and yanked, the motion making him yelp like a pup being punished as Foltest kept his hand steady. Meaning his hair was pulled. Hard enough for some strands to rip free. 

Pain always made him wake up and he clenched in panic, the lust disappearing in his mind to be replaced with one thought: Searing agony. “You… Your Majesty!”

“Answer me,” Foltest said again, his tone almost cold. “Or does all it take for you to forget orders is a cock up your arse?”

He shivered, but wisely didn’t answer as he bit his lip. Hard enough that he nearly split it open.

Foltest growled, loosening his grip on his head for a moment, allowing him to slacken, before his hand cracked over the side of his ass, eliciting a hard, surprised cry from his lips, his body tightening on his King in reflex.

“Foltest!” he stammered, barking in shock when his King slapped him again. He struck once more, harder than what he was used to on the left of his ass. His skin vibrated, his tongue wanting to shout a curse, but he held back and composed himself, forcing the pain out through his clenched teeth with a hiss. “I-I’m sorry!” he coughed.

He only got another slap across his reddening skin before Foltest’s mouth was against his ear, his teeth once again scraping over the sensitive skin, leaving him throbbing and trembling.

“Vernon,” he hissed, and he nearly whimpered at the sound of his name coming out so angrily from his King. “I swear, you do this on purpose.”

He pressed his lips together thinly, the haze creeping back into his head. Tickling and mocking him as his cock began to preen with come.

“It’s like you _want_ to be punished.”


	3. Maps (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 5th, 2018

“Do you understand?” Foltest asked him again, his voice echoing slightly off the sealed room and grey, cobblestone walls, the candles flickering on the table from a phantom wind. Roche said nothing, his eyes focused on the map before him, at the small circles of ink that enclosed around numerous towns across Temeria, each with notes written near them. Remarks about towns with supposed spies living in the midsts of the people, where the blacksmiths were, who was linked to bands of thieves or smuggling rings.

To the north, the forests were marred with various pins and scratches with words of _‘bloody elves’_ and _‘dead pricks’_ scrawled over delicately drawn trees and rivers. None were of his writing, but he knew every mark had been made after he gave his reports. Stupid terrorists dead by his hands or ambushes that had smoked out people stupid enough to believe the pathetic lies about the monarchy. They lived in shallow graves now, and for a moment he nearly smiled. Until he felt a hand reach up to grip the back of his neck, the leather hot against his skin.

Foltest was against him, pushing him against the table, ignoring the shuddering breath that came from his throat. “Answer me, Roche.”

“I understand,” he said dutifully, his stomach fluttering as he felt his King lick his neck and all thoughts of his mission evaporated. He struggled to regain composure, to force himself into the mindset he needed to prepare for another assault in the forests of the north. But then again, it had been weeks since he had been in Vizima, and his King was still not satisfied. He didn’t flinch when his gambeson was harshly pulled up and fingers were between his legs, checking to make sure he was ready. “Your Majesty,” he moaned, wanting it, his legs shaking. “I-Is that all?”

Two fingers stretched him, flicking around, pushing up, and he arched his back in response.

“That’s all,” his King muttered. Then the head of his prick his his entrance and he let himself be pushed to the table.


	4. Willingness (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 6th, 2018.

The high-pitched yelp he made was beyond embarrassing; It was a noise that not even whores made unless flashed a certain amount of coins. However, he could be forgiven for it, given his predicament - if his King was willing. His wrists were pinned to the bed with a single hand, his Majesty seizing his wool stockings with a fearsome grip, and each was torn until they split at the seams, ripping open like book in a storm. He flushed a deep burgundy as he felt them bundled around his calves and right ankle but he made no effort to cover himself or struggle. He merely moaned, letting his King know, and his reward was spit hitting his backside.

“Th-there’s oil-” He was cut off with a cold, thick liquid splashing against him in response, as if Foltest had anticipated his due diligence, and he shut himself up as fingers began working against him. Pushing in, testing, before they dived in further and were caught in the wet heat of his body. His wrists were released as his King moved back, and he took the opportunity to bury his face into the space between two pillows, groaning into the comforter. At least something muffled his damn needy moans.

“Spread,” Foltest commanded, his voice heavy and strange. He happily obeyed, his head growing dizzy, and he was rewarded with his King’s cock slapping against his ass, his fingers spreading him wide, enough he could feel the cold air inside invade.

“Your Majesty,” he begged, his toes curling as more spit and oil was dripped onto him, the warmth damn welcoming, before he felt him shift, preparing himself. The soft sounds of his monarch stroking his shaft combined with his hard breathing made him pant and he looked over his shoulder for a second, just to see.

His King - regal and strong, worth more than all the ploughing gold in Kovir - was focused on bringing himself to full attention, his cock slick with fluids, the foreskin pulled back to reveal his secondary crown. The only one he truly lusted after. He allowed himself to moan at the sight, shivering when Foltest’s left hand slapped his ass again, and he shifted on the bed eagerly. He needed him inside him, his skin burning as his mouth flooded with desire and his mind sloshed stupidly.

Foltest’s eyes flicked up, catching his for a second, and he felt his heart pound in his chest, the lust that was clear in his King’s expression making him drunk. He used to be terrified of the feeling - helpless, mindless ecstasy that took away all control - but the more he gave in when his King huskily asked him too, the more he began to crave the pleasure submission rewarded.

“Your Majesty,” he repeated, his hips nearly swaying as he shifted back and forth, his left hand moving to reach between his legs to help spread himself, craving his prick and seed. “Fu-Fuck me.”

Foltest said nothing, his eyes focused like a hunting falcon on an injured mouse, before he moved, releasing his cock so he could slam him down to the bed, pushing his shoulders into the blankets, making him yelp again. He was flattened to the sheets, his King purposely pressing him down, and he gasped for air at the pressure, his face growing hot as he tasted the sheets below.

Something wet hit him between his spread cheeks and he gladly opened up, his pulse pounding so loud in his ears, he swore he was going to go deaf.

“You little slut,” Foltest muttered, leaning over him to place a kiss against his throat, and he only whimpered. “Vernon, you damned whore.”

He arched at the words, loving every damn one of them.

“Only for you,” he panted, his head dizzy with adoration while his skin trembled with anticipation.

With that, his King - his Monarch, his _light_ \- thrust in deep, and he collapsed into the ecstasy.


	5. Kicked (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 31st, 2018.

He wasn’t choking. 

“Vernon,” Foltest warned again, reading his mind as his hand cupped the back of his head, threatening unfairly to pull him off. “You are.”

 _He wasn’t_.

The only reason he was struggling to swallow at the moment was because his throat was still sore. It wasn’t his fault a brawl had broken out at the Hairy Bear, nor was it that he got involved because whoresons around him dragged him into it. He was there on reconnaissance; Thirteen, Silas, and Fenn were there to get drunk.

It didn’t matter. It ended when he was dragged to the floor by some prick, his throat getting kicked by some bunch of bastards shouting and swinging for blood, shattering glass and spilling alcohol everywhere. For all he was concerned, it justified his reaction. The thirteenth stab was overkill, fine. As was Fenn getting drunk on blood and nearly causing a massacre. But he was beyond such petty shit at his age. Being injured in a tavern was no longer something he did nightly and his patience was thin enough as it was.

His reward for being in the wrong place at the wrong time was failing at one of his more preferred tasks. His chest was bruised, his forearm and fingers still burned, and he was struggling at swallowing. Yet he had been through worse and hadn’t given up.

He tried again to engulf Foltest down to the base, nearly gagging as his throat hissed at him to stop, fighting against bulging in any possible way. It made him bristle, his brows fixing hard as he had to let up, and his muscles ached, pulsing a pain up to his temples.

“Roche, stop,” Foltest said, his voice a clear command, but he couldn’t. Not _yet_. Not until he did his duty, one he reveled in. Again, he tried thrusting down, tensing in response as pain rippled through his body, but he fought through it. These opportunities were growing slimmer by the day; His King needed him. Just because he fucked up, it didn’t mean he had to act like a wounded mutt. He’d dealt with worse - frostbite, heat exhaustion, near-drowning, arrows in his back. This was nothing in comparison.

He pushed harder, his fingers shaking as he tried to get a better grip, a wetness forming around his eyes as he felt Foltest shift and try and stop him. He could perform, truly. He just couldn’t be as enthusiastic as he usually was.

Yet, he choked once more, his throat hurting too much, and was forced to pull off. Gasping as he did, a rawness filling his breath as he turned to the side and coughed.

“Roche,” Foltest snapped, his tone hard and disciplinary. Chastising him as if he caught him sneaking sweets. It only made him glower, his cheeks turning red as he moved to wipe the back of his mouth, and he glared at the floor, struggling for breath as he did.

This was going to result in an awful purple bruise on his neck in a few days.

“Your Majesty, I can-”

“No, you can’t,” Foltest cut in, moving to cover himself as he leaned over. He swallowed hard at the denial. Fuck him for getting involved. Plough the drunks of Vizima and their stupidity rendering him like this. “Gods, Vernon, do you have to be so stubborn? I told you to stop.”

He went red with embarrassment. Of course he couldn’t, he was his King’s Commander. The position came with an expectation one would be miserable. Who in their right mind liked dealing with Squirrels all day and slitting throats of whoresons at night? It was beside the point.

“I can do this,” he repeated.

“Roche,” Foltest snapped, his eyes holding a dark anger that made his skin run cold, even as he gave a dry swallow. “Enough.”


	6. Pains (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started November 12th, 2019.

In the long list of stupid things he had done in his life, all which added up to an embarrassing list, this had to be near the top. Not the very top; That was reserved for when he had gotten drunk and was branded with a very unfortunate tattoo on his lower back. But damn if it wasn’t close.

Of course, there were worse things in life. Losing an arm, a leg, an eye. Being born in Aedirn. Possibly death. Only, those particular follies - save for being born in Aedirn - still maintained a sense of dignity. A blind beggar could still hold office, if he was cunning. A cripple could swing a sword if they educated themselves on using a singular hand, or balanced on a non-dominant leg. Being absolutely ploughed against a windowpane didn’t allow that. Fuck, it barely allowed him to keep his damn honor. He was lower on a scale than a bloody peasant without a cock.

Like hell he was going to refuse his King, though. That’s where his stupidity lay.

It wasn’t as if they were exposed. Not… in a technical sense. He was flattened against a pane of glass, one that could be seen from the castle’s inner walls if a soldier happened to look up. And it was rattling with every damn thrust, a sound that was louder than a trebuchet launching. However, it wasn’t as if it was in the main hall. He wasn’t being ploughed in full view of the Vizima court.

Even if his King did desire that. Something he dreaded to even consider.

But this was the new castle that Vizima lay around. One built to respect the old ruin that dare not be spoken of, but also to accommodate the new. The modern. Opulent and ostentatious? Quite. No ruler needed an entire wing of a castle set out just for rooms of books, maps, and carved war figures. Except it was what made Temeria strong. Made her feared out of the Northern Realms.

Foltest knew what he lacked; knew how to prepare. Even when he had dragged his gambeson up, his fingers had been slick. The guards had been summoned to other parts. The halls were bare. _For this._

He could only wished he had considered a few more things. Such as the fact that windows were damn cold, even during the heat of summer, and they were not fitted well. At any moment, if the damn panes popped out, he would have to hang himself in the woods out of shame. Yet it didn’t bother his King. Nothing ever did.

“Vernon,” Foltest purred by his ear, holding his flesh with a grip like a griffin tearing into a deer. “How close are you?”

He had to lick his lips to respond. “Close.”

“Good.”

The panes rattled more. Gods help him if anyone saw, especially when he could feel his mind melt. He couldn’t help it, though. He had to submit. This was his King.

Foltest.

_Foltest._


	7. Folly (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started November 18th, 2019.

“You know, Roche,” Foltest smirked, taking a minute to adjust his grip on the armrests before he continued, his legs spreading a bit more to accommodate his dutiful Commander. “If you’re so worried about someone seeing, why did you come up here?”

Roche didn’t answer, though he didn’t really expect him to at this point. It had become almost routine; Roche expressing concern about the lack of privacy within the library. Tomes and scrolls didn’t dampen sounds, the doors were closed but not locked, councilmen filtered in and out and so forth. But as soon as he teased him enough and undid the belt that held his robe tightly to his frame, Roche would waver. Then shut up about it.

It nearly made him stop the brat so he could continue teasing him, just to see his reactions. It was so devilishly simple to get him riled up, even from something a benign as little flickering touches. However, Roche was quicker than he was - age was an utter hindrance these days - and before he could quip something about how fast his Commander could remove his belt and undergarments, his cock was usually halfway down his throat. Sinfully swallowed, as he thought of it, by a man known to gouge out eyes with his thumb.

Perhaps that’s why he liked tormenting him in such ways. Roche was a hard ass, in more ways than one, and for him to easily bow and flush when he made mild observations delighted him in a particular cruel way. Such a proud, harsh man yet the sight of a cock would drive him to his knees. Like waving sweet bread in front of a child.

“Roche,” he purred, watching him as he swallowed him to the base, his cheeks a rusted red, though his chaperon cleverly slipped down enough to hide his expression. He merely kept sucking, pretending to be so occupied with it. Cheeky brat. “Answer me. Or are you disobeying?”

That struck a nerve and he almost laughed at how quick Roche was to pull off his cock, his lips glistening with precome and saliva. “Sire,” he muttered in a voice so low, Foltest had no choice but to lean forward. “I don’t want us to get caught.”

“Since when have you cared about the opinions of men?”

His cheek twitched and his eyes remained cast down, as if he really did care. How quaint. “I don’t care what they say about me,” Roche damn near whispered. “But I won’t tolerate rumors about you.”

That made him raise a brow at his commander. “What rumors? That I fuck my soldiers mouths?” Roche went red. “Let them say whatever they wish.”

“Your Majesty-”

“They wouldn’t be wrong, would they?” he smirked. “I am fucking a soldier’s mouth right now.”

“T-That-”

“Besides, Roche,” he sighed, his own voice lowering. “It’s better to be called a ploughing degenerate than a sisterfucker.”

Roche frowned deeply and he sighed in turn.

He was being honest. For once.


	8. Captain (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started January 12th, 2020.

There was a rebellious streak in Roche that needed to be addressed. Not at that precise moment, but soon. He could see it clearly when he knew his newly appointed Captain thought he wasn’t paying attention. An urgency that seemed to chase him like he had the mythical hounds of war racing at his heels. Barghests that were beginning to gain ground on Vernon. He was being too damn reckless with himself.

Strategy was what killed Nilfgaard. Chaotic strategy, unfortunately, but what war went right in the heat of it? Natalis had been smart in outlining his silent movements on his maps. His fingers carefully moved the tiny pawns to indicate where armies should stand and when to attack and what groups to go first. Calvalry to shock, archers to defend, soldiers to defeat. It was logical; precise. He enjoyed it and the mock battles in play, each delicate and accounting for unexpectedness. 

Roche had started off his training by throwing a sword right at the painted enemy Sergeant. Not a common sword, but his damned, doubled-handed beast. It left him nearly dropping his waterskin in shock.

He argued it was effective. Cut off the head and the others collapse, like the severing of the leader of wolves amongst a pack of suckling pups. Yet his action was brash and, dare he say, pedestrian. A horrible display of idiotic peasantry to a line of nobles who were ready to pull out their knives and cut into his new, unblemished flesh. It irritated him, of course, and he made sure Roche saw his utter disapproval. Yet he heard him in the night. Hacking away below the windows of the south courtyard, using the night to cover himself as he tore into cords of larch to vent his anger.

A foolish King would think it would be aimed at him. A tree masquerading as the ruler; each strike to it a sentence to treason. Only he knew his men, and he damn well knew Roche better than anything else. Not even his fleas could say they knew why he was doing such lunacy, but he had his theories and suspicions. Why such a man didn’t sleep and preferred swords and straw to brethren and beds.

Vernon was clearly running from something. Not physical, no. Men could deal with the physical without the stupidity. No, no, something was driving his captain to overtrain his body and let his blisters bleed until his gloves no longer had a grip. It wasn’t defiance, but at the rate he was going, he was heading straight into the arms of the executioner. The nobles of Vizima didn’t bloody fuck around when it came to dealing with those they hated and any excuse to publicly demand a decapitation would be met with paid off councilmen agreeing.

If Roche didn’t bloody fight whatever demon he had on him, he was going to end up on the other side of his own newly installed chains and shackles, dragged to a platform to have his head roll for stubbornness. 

Yet what was he to do? He already had to watch his back, now that Boussy had been born healthy and without a trace of rot or curse. He had beaten off Nilfgaard, stringing up the necks of those who had made deals, but somewhere in the city there still lurked tension of his rule. If he was to show an over affection to a whore’s son, dragged from the gutters and groomed to be an operative, there would be strife. Henselt would be over the moon at the news and no doubt, and more Kaedweni would enter the city disguised as refugees or masking as Temerians themselves. Perhaps even Demavend would get involved again, but he doubted his distant uncle even knew the days anymore.

It still opened them up for shit. All because he trusted a bastard instead of noble blood.

Was he really to let his captain roam the barracks and shadows in such a frenzied state? His eyes were sinking in again and his leathers showing signs of having holes carved in to cinch around a waist already too thin for a soldier’s body. He was mad - feral - and if he didn’t deal with him, it would be another dog he had personally chosen being put down without his consent. Because he did the unthinkable. He _trusted_ men.


	9. Humiliation (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started January 14th, 2020.

If he thought he was going to get out of this, he was wrong.

“Roche, sit down. Now.” He snapped, purposely snarling out the last word so that the damned boy understood he wasn’t in the mood. For a moment, he saw a wavering hesitation, before his vow of obedience overrode it and slowly, Roche unfolded himself from his pained bow. He sat down pensively in his chair once more but his eyes refused to move up. He didn’t care, though for a second he considered adding another bruise to his face for the insolence. Not once had he seen his Commander express an urge of disloyalty at a command, yet there it was. Seemed as if even the most eager hound would still have the stupidity to think it could run free instead of go into its cage.

He promised in front of the gods and the court that he’d never disobey a command, yet here he was, utterly blatant about it when he had come out of concern. _How dare he._

He ignored the urge in him to punish him and moved to roughly grab his face as an alternative, forcing him to look up. Immediately, Roche winced, and he could see the marks clearly around his eyes; Boy took a great beating indeed. He turned his chin, studying his cheek where the skin had been cut by the harshness of a knuckle, before the other side was made to face his inspection. Split lip, clear bruising around his already dark eyes, and significant damage to his cheeks. Pummeled or kicked. His fistfight looked rather unfair.

“How many were there?” Roche still wouldn’t meet his eyes, his gaze centered off of him as he burned in humiliation. It was beginning to piss him off. “For fuck’s sake, Roche, I will damn well order you to tell me! How many were there?”

He opened his mouth, his teeth still stained pink from where he had been spitting out blood. “Does it matter?”

He could have strangled him. “Answer. Me.”

The vow must have kicked in because he saw the pain come through. His disobedience only stretching so far before his eyes closed and his shoulders began to slump in utter defeat. In that moment, he changed, from a man of severe violence into a pitiful, weak state. His buckling made him frown. It was too visceral of a reminder that even the strongest couldn’t mask a facade. 

Roche was still a fragile peasant dressed up like a noble killer.

“Three,” he finally answered. It somehow didn’t sound like a lie, but he knew it had to be.

“Where?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Roche-”

“It doesn’t. Truly, your Majesty,” he cut in, his cheek twitching. Not from his wounds, but from how hard he had been gripping his chin. Slowly, he drew away and his Commander wiped at his bottom lip for a moment, shamed by the marks of pain that cut into his fixed brows but still too tender to do anything. “It was dark. I hardly even know who hit me, or why.”

“That’s unacceptable, Vernon,” he snipped, watching him carefully as he wiped at his nose twice, his eye opening briefly to look at the skin of his fingers, before he went back to trying to act like he was made of stone. Only flesh didn’t lie when it was marred and control over every muscle was impossible. His right eye fluttered with pain, struggling to keep closed while wishing to open and pretend it wasn’t damaged. He was swallowing - too much - and his lip curled in several times so his tongue could lap at the wound, wishing for it to mend by saliva alone.

He took his time studying him, assessing for himself whether or not he could be left alone. His facial injuries clearly weren’t the only ones and he dragged his eyes down, watching Roche’s gambeson rise and fall from his shallow breaths. Much of him was covered by armor, but chain mail and leather weren’t completely foolproof. He knew the slice of arrows through what he had thought was an impenetrable shield, and even if he couldn’t see the obvious, there was more lurking beneath.

Roche said nothing as he kept his head hung low, his left arm stuck awkwardly to his side, tight against his body. He didn’t bother to even ask or care when Roche flinched as he leaned in over him, his hand shoving between him to touch his side where his ribs would sit, feeling his flesh tremble even through metal.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that his hand growing wet wasn’t because his soldier was sweating.

“How deep is this wound?”

Roche stared at the floor, his face blotched with guilt and embarrassment. Haunted by his failure to keep it secret.

“Roche,” he said softly. “I know the feeling of blood soaking through fabric.”

He saw how he burned for a second, his right eye struggling to open, exposing broken vessels, before it closed out of torment. A pup who only wanted to lick his wounds away from all eyes; It reminded him of how young he was and different they were. It was hard to stay angry at him and he sighed as he withdrew.

The blood smeared on his hand was bright in colour and he removed his rings, not caring that they had been soiled. Roche swallowed deeply but still refused to lift his head. His guilt was growing unnecessary, but he understood. It was hard to admit weakness.

“Take off your uniform,” Foltest commanded, but he took care in how his tone came out. “Show me, Roche.”

He didn’t move.

“Roche,” he repeated.

“Please, your Majesty-” he tried, but he silenced him.

“Vernon. I’m not asking twice.”

Pain etched over his face, his hand shaking for a second before he gave up - gave in. He raised his hand, reaching for his laces, before he paused.

“Your Majesty,” he voice came out as barely a whisper. “I will be fine.”

“That’s not up for you to decide at this point.”


	10. Basin (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started January 16th, 2020.

“Aren’t you being a bit too shy?” Foltest had to tease, watching as Roche remained as stiff as a board in the basin, his frame hunched over his knees. He could see how red his ears were from where he stood - not from the water, but from his little offhand comments - and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s not as if I don’t know what an unclothed man looks like.”

He heard him mutter, yet he still refused to relax. Honestly, he was so damned stubborn. He shook his head as he moved one of the chairs from the corner, dragging it across the tiles until he set it square in front of his Commander. A warning that he wasn’t going to leave.

It didn’t shock him when he saw how displeased he was at his predicament.

Roche’s frame was taunt and tight as he sat in the bath, looking about as miserable as one of the royal hounds when being scrubbed after a hunt. How both were almost kin in a strange sense, and he took his seat before him, musing over the similarities. A dog versus a man, yet both had such feral and gloomy looks in their eyes. Was that the secret to Roche’s unending loyalty? Was he part bitch? He would have asked, but for once the comment seemed to go too far. Vernon was already hurt from being publicly humiliated in front of the castle. There was no need to salt his wounds or continue with insults that would sting his whipped pride more.

“Wash,” Foltest commanded, settling in the chair in a more relaxed pose, and he saw Roche struggle to do as he ordered. Not because he didn’t want to, but it was clear his arm was still burning from where it had been wrenched back during the fight. One of his hands finally emerged from the water and grab the white cloth hung over the side, the fabric dragged under to become drenched for use. He began with rubbing his left forearm - gingerly - before shifting to the right. It was a pathetic display, watching him attempt to wash himself with an injured arm, and after a moment Foltest stood.

“Give me that,” he said, and finally Roche snapped his gaze up, his face a flash of emotion. Mud was still smeared over his face, but one rang clear above all. Horror that he was asking. “You think I’ve never scrubbed a man, Roche?”

His voice was low yet it seeped out in an immediate response. “Your Majesty, don’t-”

“You’re commanding me, Roche?” He froze, unsure of what to do, and it gave him an opportunity to rip the rag from his hand, squeezing out the excess water. “Really, Vernon? Do I look like a King that worries if his shoes have dust on the soles?”

He didn’t respond and he didn’t ask him to. He merely removed his own glove, taking a second to pull off his rings with quick snaps, and his naked fingers grasped his Commander’s wrist, lifting his arm so he could vigorously scrub at the flesh. There was a thin layer of dust on him that frothed brown when rubbed.

Roche said nothing, but he hunched over again in shame. His humiliation was palpable.

“My Lord,” he started, his head lowering to almost touch his knees as he moved to running the cloth over the broken skin on his shoulder. It wasn’t serious but he knew it would sting; he clearly had landed hard on it when he had fallen into the gravel, yet never showed in the moment that it had hurt. He had to be careful around the shredded skin. “Forgive me.”

He merely sighed at his apology. The amount of times he had been asked to forgive him was bordering on pitiful. “I told you Roche. Vizimir’s brat loves exercising his powers. No matter how silver his tongue is, he’s got a true whoreson’s streak in him.”

Roche breathed as the cloth ran over the back of his neck, rubbing at the tattoo that marked his pale flesh. The ink wasn’t vibrant, but on his pale skin it looked as if it had been done mere weeks ago. “He was badmouthing you.”

“Everyone badmouths me,” Foltest muttered, laying the cloth over his back to harshly scrape his fingernails against the thin nearly-black hair that adorned Roche’s head. Silver was starting to show - stress, not age - and he scrubbed him like a mutt. Even moving as far as to plant his palm on the back of his head and turn it to plunge under the water. His tense pose immediately melted as he was forced to shift and adapt to being dunked.

When he let Roche rise, the whoreson coughed loudly, immediately rubbing at his eyes like a child as water cascaded off his hair. “It’s just a bath, Vernon.”

He nearly growled, spitting back into the tub. “I know, my Lord, I don’t-”

“What?”

“I don’t like them.”

He nearly laughed at that. “What, are you part cat?”

“No,” he grumbled, hunching over again, trying to hide himself. Was it possible for a man to have both cat and dog in their veins? “I don’t like being vulnerable.”

“Roche, you’re in my chambers.” Foltest sighed. “You’re-”

“Weaponless. Injured. Naked,” he cut in. “If an assassin comes, I’m in no good position to protect you.”

Cheeky brat. “You know Roche,” he said, plunging his head under again, this time holding him down a bit longer just so he could have the satisfaction of him hacking up water when he let him rise. A reminder of how his tongue was running a bit too loose. “I have wielded a weapon since I was sucking at my mother’s rotten tit. I can bloody well handle myself.”

Roche flinched, rubbing at his eyes with his palms.

“I’m more concerned with you at the moment.”

Immediately he turned, his expression grim, his skin growing sallow and pale. It made him stop to stare at him. He actually meant his words.

It wasn’t just from watching Roche lose to Prince Radovid, the whoreson acting too brash against his Commander in the moment. Yes, words would always be exchanged; Kings constantly battled with speech and intellect these days than with swords and soldiers - Easier on both the coffers and the countryside, especially while winter was approaching. But Roche had been doing a duty. Quick to anger, and even quicker to pull a blade. He merely chose wrong, grabbing at his dagger. It was act of war to do such a thing and every Northerner - from whore to noble whoreson - knew it.

But Roche did not produce it. He merely held it, restraining himself, but it hadn’t mattered. Radovid was the one to act, as was his right. Roche was below him and brandishing an insult.

_He could have stopped it._

Of course, such an action led to the tension between both kingdoms nearly come to a breaking point. As much as Foltest disapproved of what his Commander had done, Roche was always the first one to move to protect him. He had only reacted as was natural to what he had been trained. Guard dogs did the same; He had made him instinctual for these reasons. 

The end of it was that Radovid drew blood and he could do nothing but watch as his Commander was savagely crushed into the cobblestones, his sword clattering beyond reach. Helpless to defend him in his time of need. Yet they were royals and Roche was not, no matter his position. A sloppy verbal truce was announced, an terse exchange of apologies and feigned keeping to an alliance, and Roche was dragged off with the promise of him being punished. Radovid merely mounted his horse and rode off behind his father, looking back once with a face that held an unnerving loathing. Revenge was not below him - any of them. There would be fall out for sure.

Even if he won, it would have meant a destruction of something, and he had to remind himself of it, even as he ran the cloth over torn skin and dried blood. He had promised to punish Roche, giving him a good verbal lashing as he was tossed into the barracks, but he knew better. He bloody knew his damned men. Roche reacted not to start a war but out of loyalty. His hand gripped a blade when words of insult were uttered against his King, not to prove anything. He did it out of innocence. 

It made him sigh and he merely met Roche’s strange gaze back, refusing to break it as a tense air rose between them.

“I know you wanted to protect me,” he finally said. “But if you act like this, Roche, then you’re going to end up with a sword through your neck.”

He flushed at his words.

“Don’t have me witness your body being brought into my castle in pieces.”

The look in his eyes began twisting, and he could see the effect his words had. In a second, Roche’s face filled with conflicted pain, before his eyes dropped and he turned away, once again huddling over himself.

“I vowed my life to you,” he said quietly. “I’ll take a thousand swords in my skin over letting a whoreson treat you as low as a commoner.”

Of course. He swore a fealty. But no rightful King would ever want to condemn their man to such needless death. He grabbed the back of his head again and pushed it into the water, feeling how he didn’t struggle. He trusted him completely. It was wrong to fail even a peasant when he owed his life to them.


	11. Grace (Roche-centric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started January 19th, 2020.

Once again, his fingers moved to readjust the thin braided rope that held his cloak to his shoulders, his breath lingering like smoke in the air. Even though the tips of his fingers were a bright red, burning from exposure, he fixed himself without complaining. There was no point in it, even if anyone cared. Every one of his men were wrapped tight within their own moss-dyed cloaks with varying degrees of misery, and him voicing annoyance would only set them off on their own complaints. Boots falling apart. The rain. Skin near frostbite. 

He barely turned his head to look back at them over his shoulder when droplets of the autumnal rain began cascading off the peak of his hood, soaking his shoulders and any part of wool that wasn’t already clogged with water. It left his bones aching as he resisted the urge to once again try and batter off the cold from himself; Give his shoulders relief from the weight they had to sustain. 

His teeth grit and he went back to staring out into the dense, fog-choked forest that enclosed them. Filip and Kacper would be back soon. Then he could focus his suffering on something productive.

Reluctantly, he raised his fingers to his mouth to blow on them, the warmth of his breath only furthering the pain. Fuck. Silently, he slid two into his mouth, but it didn’t make a difference. They felt blistered and pulsed with a burn that itched, the blood flowing poorly through his constricted veins. It was stupid of him to drive north without exchanging clothes, but when rumors came in about strange activity in the woodlands at night, he had to pursue.

If they were unlucky, it would be some form of beast. The local drunks at the tavern mentioned a girl had gone missing, but claimed no _‘Leshy nor cannibal deer, nor nek’en liked the woods’_. Thank the gods Ves at least understood their stupid babbling to relay Leshens, Fiends, or Nekkers weren’t common, but it didn’t mean they hadn’t moved in.

Personally, he was hoping it was some stupid Squirrels. It would give him a reason to unload some frustration he had bottled up over the months and bring Foltest some peace of mind that snake-tongued elves were now joining their gods in a bog, or wherever the hell they assumed they went in death. Not to mention deter any other non-human from thinking it was a grand idea to join a pathetic resistance. They had a chance at living in their own domain and they fucked it up. If they were so bloody enchanted by ideas of living in stone cities carved with poorly done naked she-elves, they could cross the mountains. But none of them ever did. It was only ever the lands already cultivated that they wanted.

Unfortunately for them, he wasn’t going to let any elf have their hands on it. Foltest’s blood ran deep in Temeria - longer than any bloody non-human - and he had no qualms in unleashing an arrow into the eyes of bastards who wanted chaos and discord because they wanted to be worshipped. Elf, human, or dwarf.

He slid his index finger up his upper teeth, nursing it and his attitude soured. Whoresons had no idea the type of King Foltest was. How he actually knew elvish and was fascinated by their culture. But what could he expect of such gullible cunts? All it took was some rotted elf with no balls to complain, and the youth followed them into the forest thinking they were going to become heroes. Cunts never ended up like that. If anything, they just became food for the trees, their bodies tossed against the earth along with their stupid sense of glory, and Temeria moved on with no care to mourn.

For a moment, he wondered if the stupid gits he cut down even knew their parents would be blind to where they lay. Then again, if they cared, they would have had the sense to stay in their damn huts and suffer with everyone else against the harshness life provided. Why should he feel guilt over it? Those who didn’t listen and assumed he was bluffing always ended up crying when his sword cut through their neck. They played a losing game.

His shoulders sagged a bit at that. They all played a losing game, technically. Death was inevitable, even for him.

_But at least he didn’t murder poor peasants in backwater hamlets so he could act like he was making a difference._

Now that he pondered it, it pissed him off. Fucking stupid kids. This is what selfishness to a stupid cause led them to. Bodies hidden in the undergrowth of a forest; Feed for Aghouls and Rotfiends. And him being stuck in the deep heart of autumn in a forest heavy with decay, fog, and rain. Away from Vizima, away from his comforts, and away from his King.

He withdrew his fingers from his mouth, looking down at them and how they shone with saliva. For a second, they felt warm, and the red had turned pink and bright. But it was only for that amount before they started hurting again and he growled low in his chest. The biting would never end.

Clenching his hand and wrapping it in the wet wool didn’t help, and he felt the chill rush through his body, crawling up and down his spine, mocking him again. Cold - his old friend. What he wouldn’t give to just start a damn fire and shove his hands against the coals - burning his flesh to the bone sounded that appealing. But he knew his tactics and maintained his lone stance, glaring into the shapes of trees around him, sharp with their coniferous boughs that hung heavy with dew, their roots soaked and bark splintering with sap before they sunk back into the mist.

When the fog had rolled down to cover forest beneath them, swallowing up the valley and inching towards the open plains, it had been early in the morning. Dawn, if he recalled, as he had a restless sleep with his hand on his crossbow. By the time the rain had fully embraced their camp, he was thoroughly soaked already. He could feel his cheeks growing numb, his breath escaping through pained lips, and behind him his men dug and shifted and hissed in their own agony. The dampness was taking its sweet toll on them all and the aches were inevitable.

He felt it deep in his shoulder - a broken arrow had meant he had been practically flayed to fetch the stone, and it never healed right after. In the pit of it, where the tip had pierced deepest, he felt it. A hard ball of pain.

Again, his men shifted, muttered, complained, and sneezed. Each just as miserable but unwilling to move. Only Ves clambered her way to him after staring at the back of his head for too long, breaking his command that they all remain still and silent. Out of all of them, he expected her to listen to his word the most, but even in the dreariest conditions, she couldn’t hold out. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation that she thought she was above an order and when she came, he made sure she saw his eyes.

Her nose, cheeks, and chin were a blushed red, and her lips were bitten down, swollen from trying to keep warm. He would have had a pang of sympathy if he wasn’t in the same position. “Roche, it’s been hours.”

He only gave her a dark stare, the hood of his cloak now dripping a steady stream of rain.

“Did I not give you a command?” he asked. “If you think you’re above listening to me because you have tits, Ves-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again,” she immediately snapped, furthering his annoyance. “Commander, we’re all bloody frozen. Kacper should have been back by now. Even Filip doesn’t stay out this long scouting.” She moved closer to him, breathing out puffs of air that ghosted over his cloak, and he saw the slight chatter of her teeth. “Roche. None of us have our kits. We’re going to catch some form of death sitting out here.”

He doubted that. If any of his men did, they were too ill-equipped to be part of his excursions. _Besides._ He had to look away from her as his thoughts ran deep into a well he rarely drank from. Despite her hardships, Ves still had grown in a home that had been enclosed with four walls. She never had tasted winter trapped on the outside, surrounded by people full of indifference. Rain was one thing. Snow and the frost that crept in the dark were another. His fingers and exposed skin were burning, yes, but it was nothing compared to trying to claw into a space that only rats slept in with clothes thinner than pressed paper from Ofir.

This was uncomfortable, not life-threatening. Not like what he knew.

He glared out at the trees, how every needle and branch dripped with moisture and the scent of fungus, earth, and geosmin rose from beneath their feet.

“Roche,” Ves pleaded, knowing he wasn’t listening to her. “We need to go back. Or at least send out a team to find them, and the rest of us could leave, and-”

He cut her off, as she had done to him. “You gave me an oath, Ves. You gave one to Foltest as well, didn’t you? We all have stood in front of our King - Temeria’s ruler - and given pledges. And because of a little rain, you want to withdraw?”

He saw her lips turn paper thin from the corner of his eye. “We’re not in a war, Roche. We’re in some unknown forest shoved up against the Mahakam mountains, running on a rumor that isn’t even confirmed. We’re freezing!” She emphasized the last part heavily. “And - And Filip and Kacper have been gone way too long. What if they’re dead? Should we join them? What would Foltest say then?”

Now he had to meet her eyes, catching the exasperation that lay across her face before she tried to pull it together and look intimidating. He really tried not to take it personally, but he was growing tired of her questioning him and using _his_ monarch as an excuse. Her title had been given for her skills and her ability to bloody listen. Lieutenant didn’t fucking mean she had equal ground with him, nor did it mean she knew what she was insisting.

“Ves, you keep testing my patience.”

“Roche, I don’t want to die out here.”

“Die?” he scoffed, struggling to keep his voice down. “It’s rain, Ves. Not a bloody flood or cloud of flesh-eating locusts. You have survived standing in it before. Stop acting like this is a death sentence.”

She tried hard not to bare her teeth. “It will be if we aren’t given the ability to make shelter! These cloaks aren’t made for this, and you know it! Even a bastard from Skellige would be dressed better than this for this weather.”

“I doubt that,” he snarled. She went red in embarrassment at his mocking.

“Roche, this-”

“Commander,” Silas’ voice came, and he found himself turning to see some of his men standing down from them, clearly invested in their arguing. It only further drove his blood pumping angrily through his veins, his breaths snorted out through his nose. “The Lieutenant is right. We’re all freezing in this.”

He didn’t bother looking to Ves; His eyes locked on Silas and in an instant he could see him hesitate. The only thing his band of idiots fucking knew was not to provoke his wrath, and he purposely pulled his hood back so they could see the fury in his eyes.

Thirteen was smart enough to look away.

“It’s. Fucking. Rain,” he said, his voice fighting to stay under control.

“Yes, but-”

He cut Silas off, his voice curt and raging like rapids over pebbles. “Have you all had your balls fall off? Did you think becoming a Blue Stripes meant comfort and silk pillows at all times? I will remind you fucking lot of whoresons and cunts that you bent your knee to me. To King and Country. And I don’t give a shit if your dick falls off from frostbite!” Fenn immediately shifted in discomfort. “We are out here because of that _oath_.” 

He snapped each word before glaring at Ves for a moment, making sure she saw his utter disappointment in her complaining. “You think those fucking Squirrels are going to give up doing their terror for rain? That sitting in a forest will make them retreat to mugs of ale? I fucking taught you all better than that. You all know ploughing better than that!”

“Roche-” Ves tried, but he silenced her, taking a step toward her to remind her he was not Natalis. He could not be swayed by words and moaning and whimpers of being cold.

“Do you want me to bring up your village, Ves? How about the caravan we found a few years back. Childrens heads smashed in. The woman dismembered. Her belly torn apart.” She went still and he knew the memory was fresh in her head. Gods, he hated using that against her, but he bloody was sick of the lack of trust. She, out of all of his men, knew his thoughts and actions better than that.

“My vow, Ves. All of you,” he shot in, swiftly staring to his underlings. All who were now staring up at him with a mixture of shame and anger. Not at his words, but because he knew they remembered the shit they found well. Every _fucking_ time.

He was tired of seeing dead children. _He was tired of seeing himself in them._

“We are out here for Foltest - For Temeria. Because it’s diseased, and the army is too stupid to fucking figure out how to hunt an elf.” He took a second to inhale, and the damp air only lit the fire growing in his throat. “I don’t give a shit if this rumor is wrong. I could fucking care less if this was locals seeing things in a drunken stupor. I ploughing gave my word to our Majesty that Temeria wouldn’t be burdened by squalor. For all I know, there’s a deer out here that’s breaking tree branches. But if it is a band of Squirrels and I didn’t follow through with this because of some fucking rain then I might as well cut my throat now. Because I wouldn’t dare show my face back to our King.”

He stared at Ves again, at her flushed cheeks, her angry eyes, but he knew she felt the same. Her emotions were fluent - erratic sometimes - but he chose her for a reason. “Don’t fucking question me for this,” he told her. It was directed to them all, but to her specifically in that moment. “And don’t you dare tell me that rain is a death sentence. I have been kind to you all and kept you close to the capital in winter.” He slid his gaze down to Silas, who was staring off to the side with a hushed expression. “If you are bothered by this, then you are not fit for my service.” He paused. “Neither are you fit for Temeria’s grace.”


	12. Drown (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started January 21st, 2020.

It hardly bothered him to see the shadow by his fire, hunched over with the iron rod to stoke the flames to a rolling boil. Roche worked like an astrologist’s sundial. If he was in Vizimia, there was no doubt that after the evening meal and before the nightfall’s drinks, he would be present in the castle. A ghost, in a sense, that haunted the halls to the royal chambers, not caring of the rumors it brought.

In fact, he recalled Duke Gaspar remarking that when the Blue Stripes Commander set foot in the castle, death was sure to follow. For his tastes, he wouldn’t have gone that far with such a statement. But then again, Vernon Roche and blood went together like bread and wine. If he wasn’t coated in it at some point, it would soon be spilled all over the walls and carpets. It was just the way he was.

A typical whoreson. Yet one he had to admit he liked.

“Roche,” Foltest remarked as he shrugged off his cotton over-robe, fetching the heartier woolen one to throw over his body. It wasn’t for show, he was genuinely cold. The season was taking its damn time to shift from winter to the soft breeze of spring. “What do you have for me?”

His Commander stood, the shadows fluttering over his face causing him to look like a standing corpse. Gaunt, as always, with a hint of frailness that juxtaposed with his ferocity. Winter had been harsh that year for them all, but for Roche it always seemed to take a harder toll.

He merely reached into his satchel and produced a folded letter, the wax seal upon it as black as the creeping night. It made him stop, his heart skipping slightly. There was no mistaking the crest that had been marked into the wax.

“Nilfgaard?” he asked. Roche nodded. “Where?”

“Where? In the canal by now, rotting,” his Commander shrugged, his voice even but his tone telling all. Indifference. Death did indeed haunt the boy, though he doubted he cared. “Thought he was being clever, acting as a pilgrim staying here to attend the Holy Fire services.”

“How did you find him?”

Roche gave a light snort. “Whoreson held up the wrong fingers when asking for a drink.” He held up his own to indicate, his thumb showing. “Two beers.” He folded his thumb in and lifted his middle finger. “Not two beers.”

Somehow, it didn’t surprise him. “That’s all it took for you to be suspicious? My Roche, you are paranoid.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked.”

Again, not a valid reason to possibly drag a man out and beat him, but what could he say? His hound had an unnatural knack for finding spies.


	13. Nobility (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started March 17th, 2020.

“Roche, be honest with me,” he said, making sure his grip was strong and solid on his wrist. His Commander didn’t move, the bottle in his left hand steady, but still tipped forward, threatening to spill. “You really never want to know who your father was?”

He watched his lips grow thin, his harsh eyes slipping to not meet his gaze, but he didn’t move. He kept by his side.

“Roche?” he repeated after more than three long heartbeats. He finally swallowed a bit, the sound barely audible, but the movement of his throat caught his attention under the scrutiny of the firelight.

“I hardly care at this point.”

That was a lie. A drunk could see through it. “You expect me to believe that?”

Roche struggled for an answer and finally began to resist his grip. He loosened and let him slip from his grasp, the bottle soon corked and placed on the small table between them. Purposely set to sit on top a gwent card made up of a Redanian infantrymen. 

“What does it matter?” he asked, his fingers lingering on his mug before they withdrew and he stared into the fire. The flickering of light only further cast his dark eyes into muddier shades. “He left. I survived. That’s the end of it.”

He had to sigh to himself, watching his dear Commander as the years of discarded emotions crawled over his face. Hatred, frustration, pain. It all danced over his harsh features and it made him look to his own goblet of wine. He understood more of those feelings than Roche probably knew.

“What if he was a noble?” he had to ask, though he kept his voice quiet. “You could be the bastard son of a count.”

Roche gave a harsh, hollow snort. “The councils would riot if that were true.”

“It could be.”

“I doubt it,” he muttered. “Even if I had been, what need do I have of lands or coin?” He gave a bitter shrug. “I’d rather cede it back to the crown than live a life laying on a veranda, drinking shit wine and pretending I gave a fuck about what local daughter fucked which neighbour’s son.”

Foltest had to give a small smile at that. “Sometimes it’s not a daughter doing the fucking you know. Sometimes it’s a son looking at another son.”

“I hardly care,” he repeated. Typical.

“Gossip can be fun, Roche.” His face soured immensely at the notion. He took that moment to take a sip of his own wine. “Trust me. For example, say you were a noble’s bastard. One who occupies the King’s chambers more than his own. What do you think would be said about such situations?”

Roche focused on him, his face taunt and serious. He merely smiled.

“Everyone thinks you already live in my bed, you know.”

He flushed a crimson he had only seen matched by gifted tapestries. It nearly made him laugh.

“You don’t like such a rumor?”

“My Lord-”

“Even though you do occupy my bed?”

“Your Majesty-” he tried again, this time his face growing hot. Foltest merely smirked before taking another sip of wine. As much as he was enjoying this, it did sober him slightly.

“Roche,” he said, looking into the fire himself, staring at the burned boughs of juniper and the melted satchel of frankincense and raspberry leaves. “I ask about your father because if you truly were holding noble blood, I would reward you graciously.”

His expression changed. Not to one of shock or horror, but to one of strange guilt.

“I wouldn’t accept it.”

He glanced at him. “Even if I ordered it?”

Slowly, Roche swallowed again. “No.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, his throat bobbing, his face still flushed but now it was tinted with something else. Shame? Or emotional pain?

“Your Majesty,” he finally said, his tone careful; Feared. “I don’t want to know whatever heritage I carry. Isn’t it enough I serve you? Can’t that be my legacy?”


	14. Spies (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started June 7th, 2020

He locked the door, making sure the deadbolt was tight against the wood before he turned back to his Commander. Roche frowned deeply, struggling to push himself up on his forearms, but he snapped his fingers at him. “Lie back down.”

“Sire,” Roche hesitated.

“Roche, I am ordering you to lie back down.” He cut in before his Commander made useless excuses again. At that, the boy scrunched up his nose, his mouth turning into a hard, defiant line on his face. Typical whoreson peasant. But gradually Roche lowered himself back down to the bed once the strain of sitting up got to be too much. Despite his brave front, the mere movement had exhausted him and he moved to his side, in response, reaching for the cloth that lay in the bowl of water to wring out and hand to him.

Roche took his, but his cheeks were beginning to flush red with embarrassment. He could only guess why, but he knew his observation was probably true. “There’s no shame in your weakness right now, Vernon.”

He carefully laid the cloth against his neck, wiping at the sweat before he moved it up to his left temple “I beg to differ.”

“And I am telling you there isn’t,” he sighed. “Whether or not you choose to acknowledge it, you did Temeria a great service at the sacrifice of what could have been your life. I won’t forget that.”

Roche merely shifted the cloth to his other temple before finally resting it on his forehead, just enough that it cast a shadow over his eyes. “If I had done my job, I wouldn’t have been caught.”

It was his turn to frown at him. “Vernon, you couldn’t have predicted-”

“I could have,” he cut him off, his tone full of bitterness and fury. “I could have done this cleanly. Aedirnians are not brilliant masterminds, my Lord. They are weak, hoe-beaten farmers who can’t tell a pig’s ass from their own. There is no excuse for my failure and capture.” His jaw set tight for a moment, the grinding of his teeth audible, before he breathed. “You know it as well as I do.”

He refused to agree. “Roche, you underestimate my kin. Demavend may be a drunk, but he’s not ploughing stupid. No matter how careful you could have been - or flawless - there’s always someone that notices when something isn’t right.” His cheek twitched as the memory of him and Adda came to his mind. How fast the castle was to know, even when they did everything to be discreet. “It would have been nice if it had been days before your actions were noticed, but they weren’t.”

Roche merely grunted. Dissatisfied. He shook his head at his stubbornness, but this time he didn’t chastise him. Instead, he sighed, looking out of the small window that revealed nothing but snow-capped mountains in the distance. Even in a place such as this, he couldn’t find peace. The guilt was beginning to eat his gut again, especially with how close he was to Roche. How the bruises on his neck and cheek were blackening, his tended cuts still red and swollen, struggling to heal.

He had come close to losing him. One of his best soldiers - his loyalist - all for what? Information? Confirmation of rumors in case he needed blackmail? Was using his spies as indiscriminately as Nilfgaard worth it in the end?

He forced himself to look at his Commander. To stare at the bandages on his arms, how his skin stretched painfully over his jutted collar and healing ribs, and how his breathing stuttered at times. That his torturer had unfairly been given a taste of his own medicine. Vernon always brushed off such things; Wounds, scars, beatings. But this time it had happened on his orders. He gave such sloppy instructions. His need for Aedirn’s secrets led to the near crippling of his Intelligence Commander. He hadn’t done anything while Roche had been beaten to an inch of his life.

It was beneath him to feel guilt, but in that moment, staring at Roche, it came over him like the mountain wind. Stinging and cold.

He had damn well near sentenced Roche to death. And the fool had only blindly agreed to it. There was no discussion or planning. He merely gave an order - suicide - and Vernon Roche has bowed and agreed. No turning back, no stopping to think. Just walking right into death’s arms.

There was hesitation as he stared at him, the guilt swelling like a storm, but he purposely tried not to think of it as he leaned down over his injured Commander, his hand reaching to pull the cloth away. Roche only blinked, not aware of his choking turmoil, and he didn’t meet his gaze as he dipped the cloth back into the bowl of water, letting it soak up as much as it could hold before he lifted it out and squeezed the life from it.

“Vernon,” he said quietly, trying to figure out how to proceed. He was a King, trained and born into being a leader and a ruler. There were no apologies in his vocabulary that weren’t honed for meaningless interactions. Courtesy for the gentler sex or phrases to soothe angry barons and priests. Men did not face their failures by saying ‘Sorry’. Yet this had rendered him painfully human. Could have lived with his regrets if Roche had perished? Would he be able to handle the guilt now lay in himself. Deep in his heart, a place he had only reserved for Adda until that moment.

How many times was he going to kill the people he cared about? Would he not be satisfied until all of his allies and lovers were dead?

Slowly, he moved to sit beside Roche’s hip on the bed, still holding the cloth that was threatening to drip onto his lap, his face growing dark as the strange emotion sucked at his chest. Was his lust never going to be sated? Were the only ones who bent their knees willingly to him painted to die by his foolishness? Over fifty winters he had lived through along with wars that woke him up on haunting nights. He had watched his only love die in his arms along with his daughter, only for her to become a blight that he had nearly given up on. Even now, his daughter preferred living in her head and his lover had turned him from her bed as her husband began ailing.

His orbit was diminishing, left to only those who secretly desired his crown or the last of Temeria’s true loyal men. And he had decided to kill the ones willing to die for him.

“Your Majesty?” Roche asked, his concern palatable. How it should be the opposite - he should be concerned for him. His fragile, weak body that had somehow survived.

He didn’t have any words; Nothing sincere. So he merely held the cloth out to Vernon, his eyes locked on the wall, hoping the gesture would be enough for him to understand everything he couldn’t say. That he couldn’t be replaced.

He hadn’t wanted this.

Roche only frowned, not understanding the weight that was being offered. He pulled the cloth from his palm with three fingers - middle, index, and thumb - and it made a soft sound as it placed back on his forehead, shading his sunken, tired eyes. He responded by acting childish. He stared at his hands for a moment, to the wetness that shone on his glove, and he merely pushed off the bed, refusing to even look back at his Commander.

“Rest,” he muttered. “Keep at it.”


	15. Cloying (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started June 8th, 2020

“You don’t like it?”

Roche said nothing, but there was a deep contemplation in him that was clear in his eyes. Picking through his words carefully, navigating the best way not to offend him. Honestly, it was slightly endearing. Any time Vernon tried not to be a prick, he found himself charmed.

“The first taste is fine,” he finally decided, his tongue pressing against his cheek for a moment as he continued to form his sentence carefully. “But the further you get into it, the more…” He hesitated.

“Speak openly, Roche,” he encouraged. His Commander only frowned.

“It’s cloying,” he said, setting down his knife as if it had poison coating the tip. “Sickeningly so.”

“Too sweet for you?”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s too sweet in general. There’s no balance.”

He chuckled at his statement, moving to once again cut off a small corner of the cake with the side of his fork, picking it up delicately. As only nobles were trained to do. “There is a balance, actually,” he remarked, turning the fork so he could look at the tiny piece of cake, the thing still drenched in the caramel. “One only refinement can taste.”

Roche pressed his lips thin. He couldn’t tell if it was out of embarrassment or disbelief. He only continued, slipping him a wry smile. “The cloying sweetness you taste is because you drenched your cake in the sauce. Only a light drizzle will do, Vernon. Soaking it will ruin all the textures.” He slipped the cake into his mouth, taking a moment to truly savor it and pick out each ingredient. “I can taste bitterness from liquor, Vernon. And salt. Grinded flour. Honey. Butter. Egg.” 

His Commander was starting to flush.

“There’s a sourness, I suppose, from yeasted hands. Or maybe that’s from a bit of soured milk or cream. And if you focus,” he took another moment, going over the ingredients in his head. “Hazelnut. Just lightly grinded in. Enough that a peasant couldn’t taste.”

Roche grabbed his mug, taking a drink as his expression grew tense. “Forgive me for not noticing,” he mumbled. He didn’t say it to be an ass, they both knew it, but he couldn’t help but smirk at his ignorance.

“Vernon. Your palette is shit, if I may be honest.” He slightly glowered at the accusation. “I can’t hold it against you for I know the circumstances of your birth and upbringing. But if I send you somewhere, you need to be sharpened for this type of thing.” He set down his own fork, folding his hands together as he rested his elbows on the table and truly stared at his Commander. A peasant made rich. “If this cake was poisoned and you ate it, I would lose you.”


	16. Beasts (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 13th, 2020.

“Fuck,” Roche groaned louder. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He had to agree to his soldier’s nonsensical cursing. Despite his arms aching from holding his swearing Commander up, his hands firm on the ass that wriggled against his palms, the position was slicking his lust. Unoriginal in it’s execution - fucking against a wall was a little cliche, even for him - but damn, if it didn’t feel good. Like hot ale in the deep of winter, spiced just right with foreign delicacies and intoxicating that two cups made one weak. It was deeply satisfying and warming and getting him drunk faster than he wanted.

Clearly, Roche thought so as well, and he clenched around him as he thrust in hard, squeezing his cock with a grip that made him audibly swallow. For the love of Melitele, he forgot for a second he was even a King and Roche moaned into his ear, not helping him keep his wits.

“Please,” he begged, his small intakes of breath sending a shiver down his spine. He had to be audible during this - such a _whore_. “Please - fuck! Ah, fuck!”

Ploughing hell, he struggled with his trembling grip, the position becoming uncomfortable as his lust heightened. But the way Roche was clinging to him, his legs wrapped around his back, his arms tight around his neck as his mouth sucked on any bit of exposed skin - Something about it was stroking the fire in his stomach beyond what it normally could handle. A primal need to breed swelled in his chest, urging him to do something drastic. Animalistic, mindless; Their standing position was so clearly human yet he wanted to drop them back to something more bestial. 

He shoved Roche harder against the wall, his fingers digging into his ass as his mouth plied for his throat, begging for the answer on what to do.

What he got in return was Vernon being a bloody tart. “Your Majesty,” he panted, his cheek pressing into his collar, his breath hot against his skin as his fingers dug in to his robes, fisting the fabric as he clenched. It made him arch himself, a groan nearly bursting from his mouth. “Oh, fuck… Oh, fuck! Fuck me! _Fuck me_!”

He bit him in response, causing Roche to nearly squeeze the life out of him. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to fuck him into the floor. To act like a brute - a bull in heat. It wasn’t like Roche would deny him the position either.

Maybe it was what he wanted too.


	17. Breathe (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 14th, 2020.

It was a hot, wet heat. Enough to make him shudder himself, the pleasure momentarily overwhelming, especially when he clenched. “Roche,” he nearly groaned, fighting the fever wanting to take over before he focused on him. Just to have something to calm his dizzying mind. It was too easy to lose himself in sex, and despite his partner not being _her_ , it still was enough to nearly make him an animal.

What greeted him back was the reflection of a man drenched in pleasure. Roche - _the bastard_ \- was gripping the sheets below them tight, his eyes glazed and unfocused on the ceiling above, his chest rising and falling as he panted in bliss. He was in his own world, one where he was dangerously close to coming without him, his cock clearly dripping wet beads of seed onto his stomach even as they paused. All he needed was to be penetrated and the whoreson looked ready to burst. Able to get to the brink of hazy pleasure like a damn whore who had been given two thousand crowns.

Naturally, he couldn’t let that happen - _Not without him_ \- and he bent over his drunken Commander, grabbing his wrists with a bruising grip to tear his silken bedding away from his fists. Roche groaned, blinking for a second, and he purposely restrained him, leaning over until he could feel the heat of his breath on his neck, dominating him through his presence alone.

His eyes struggled to focus, but once he did, he licked his lips. He was enjoying this much too openly.

“Roche,” he growled. “Aren’t you being rather selfish?”

He blinked again, chewing on his words. “Yo-Your Majesty?”

It seemed almost cruel to tease him, but gods, it was almost too perfect. Roche had a way of setting himself up for failure, even if he didn’t recognize it, and it made his role rather easy. Without speaking, he pulled back, making sure he slid out inch by agonizing inch, and he felt how the whoreson began to shake.

“Your Majesty,” he corrected, his face flushing hot again, his senses coming back. That’s what he wanted to see. Defiance, yet restraint. He wanted to protest fully but couldn’t. It was almost too perfect and sent a shiver of satisfaction up his spine.

“You’re not allowed to come, Vernon. Not until I say.”

His eyes sharpened at the threat and he nearly smirked, daring him to fight back. He was back within his grip, into reality and the unfairness of this - If he had to wait, so did Vernon. Punishment for them both, in a sense. He wasted no time in taking it; He snapped. Hard enough for him to feel it in his toes.

The first thrust went deep, enough that Roche yelped and arched, unprepared for it. He, truthfully, hadn’t been either, but the second he got far enough in, the sensation of Roche’s damned tight hole gripping every part of his prick, he stopped thinking. He wanted it, the melting pleasure. The intensity and suffocation and damned ploughing way they fit together. The reward his cock got from entering a welcomed place was ecstasy on all fronts and he groaned, smirking as he did. Gods, he didn’t want to stop.

Roche didn’t resist, his body squirming for a better way to meet his flesh, before he fell into his role like a seasoned lover. He panted, arching his back, letting his legs fall open wide with no resistance for him and gave him the damned look he loved. Taking his cock without complaint while taunting him with an expression of mindless euphoria. It made him lean over, grabbing his wrists again, and Roche didn’t resist, playing his part eagerly.

“Foltest,” he begged, gasping when he thrust in again. “You’re so-”

He knew the next line, but he didn’t need to hear it, lest he release right then and there. Instead, he crushed his mouth to his, stealing what belonged rightfully to him, and he was given it all. 

“Roche,” he warned. His Commander only panted again, gulping in a breath.

“ _Please._ ”


	18. Windfall (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 17th, 2020

“So, tell me Roche,” Foltest smirked at him, his hand resting on the pommel of his blade as they stood under a gnarled oak, facing the small village that clung to the muddied river of the Lucent. It was an unimpressive tributary, one that would eventually link up with Pontar, but it still managed to coddle fish in the deep summer. Not a lot, but just enough. A mirror of numerous other villages and towns that scattered Temeria’s fragile countryside. “What do you think?”

Roche frowned at the question, staring beyond the village. He failed to see whatever his King had and after a moment, he had to concede. If this was a test he surely was failing. “About what, your Majesty?”

Foltest swept his right hand across the plain, the rings on his fingers catching the light. It was practically storybook. “Here. This.”

“This?”

“This!” Foltest said louder, his smirk growing into a grin. “Tell me what you think, boy! I didn’t call you to my side for you to act stupid."

His cheeks flushed a little, but he deserved the snip. Truthfully? What he was staring at was unimpressive and boring. He loved Temeria with all his heart, with a fire that burned him to the core, but that didn’t mean she didn’t sometimes underwhelm. Despite her prominence and beauty, she still held pathetic hamlets in her bosom, and he could practically smell the cow shit from where they were. However, that wasn’t what he was being asked. He understood why Foltest was prying for his opinion.

Why, though, he still couldn’t tell. Surely Natalis was better for this. “For a mock battle, it will suffice.”

Foltest cast him an interesting glance. “It will suffice?”

His cheeks began to redden in embarrassment. “I mean, Sire, that is-”

“Roche, stop stumbling on your words.” Foltest cut him off, but it wasn’t in a harsh or demeaning tone. It was light - amused. Kindly, even. “I know what you think of these types of places. You never see villages as being quaint and comforting or people as being simple.” He tapped a finger on his pommel again, as if relishing in teasing him. “More than once you’ve said these are, to quote, filthy shitholes. Am I right?”

He flushed deeply. He may have muttered that at some point. “Because they are.”

His King continued to smile as if he hadn’t heard. “But tell me. What does this remind you of? This place, these meadows?”

He honestly had no idea. Foltest graciously gave him a few minutes to think, his cheeks red as he glared at the plain, watching smoke rise from the village. The forest was cast far from the pathetic huts, the wood having been milled and hewn ages before he had taken a breath. There were scattered oak and elm, some which had old nooses hung from the branches, but otherwise it was a lonely village on a hot, grass plain. The road was broken in places leading to it, with fence posts bent over where a cow field had been laid, but nothing was remarkable otherwise.

No elven ruins for scholars to salivate over, no monument or castle, or even stones where a tower had once been. It was just some lonesome field near the outskirts of the Blue Mountains.

Finally, Foltest answered for him when he clearly could see the confusion in his eyes. “South. Near where Sodden is marked on a map. Not right by the mountains but close.”

His thoughts began to whirl, trying to pick where his King meant.

“There was an area like this, only placed on the Yaruga.” His gaze moved to watch him as he furiously thought. He hadn’t been in southern Temeria that much. Mahakam was an exception, but Scoia’tael seemed to like the North more. Terrorizing settlements of wealth, coveting it for their own. The south was mostly farms - uninteresting for a ploughing greedy elf. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

It pained him more than he thought to reply. “I don’t.”

Foltest sighed, softly in disappointment, but it still wasn’t mocking. It more held the tone of what a father would make when challenging their child, only for them to come up just short. “There was a charming village down there, Roche. By the name of Waybury. It didn’t boast anything useful. A small Inn with mead. A few lovely girls who would wave when you passed. Ordinary, lazy.” He gave pause. “Then Nilfgaard came.”

His blood ran cold and Foltest didn’t press further.

“Do you understand?”

A fleeting flicker of empathy passed through him, but it didn’t linger. It only held long enough for him to give a nod. “Yes.”

“And on a battlefield such as this, do you understand what your role would be?”

He didn’t need to say anything more. Immediately, he bent, touching the earth. The soil was hard, meant to take the rays of the sun, but all dirt could be cut into. Holes could be made, the forest could be ripped back more, and traps would be hidden if placed smartly among the waves of wheat that swayed in the fields. He could see the placement of his men and where they could be, luring soldiers, breaking lines, and more importantly, severing flesh. “Yes,” he replied with full confidence. Anything he wanted, it could be achieved, he merely had to ask. “I do, your Majesty.”

“How fast can you accomplish what I want if an invasion was coming tomorrow?”

“However fast you desire.”

He smiled; Softly. "Then start while I rouse my army." His hand once again moved to lay on the pommel of his sword. "I do not wish to see another Maribor again."


	19. Finesse (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 18th, 2020.

It had been too long since he had been able to study anything made of glass. Rumors were surfacing that a pair of brothers in Penheath were close to making glass as cheap as wood - bags of sand from Zerrikania were found being driven by cart to their home - but so far, nothing physical had been made. Glass, for all its wonder, was still something reserved for Kings. It was beyond what even some nobles could pay, unless they were from old money. A last great sign of luxury that mere peasants could barely comprehend.

A glass chalice was worth more than half of Vizima.

He had been one, at a point. A poor wretch who didn’t know anything beyond shit-smelling streets and papered windows. When he was first allowed into the palace, he had gaped at the dyed glass like every other pathetic rube, shocked by its brilliance. He wasn’t so stupid as to think they were made of magic, but it was far beyond what a whoreson would ever be allowed to see. Even the brothels could only afford oiled leather, but they hid it well with silk and paint. Masks upon masks, as what was expected from such places.

Vizima’s grand palace had real glass; Crafted for the ages, redyed every other season to keep the colours bright. It was the first time he had been bathed in every hue under the sun, his pale complexion splashed with translucent wonder, his hands holding the hued reflections of past kings.

Funny how easily such things faded. Though he still couldn’t afford such things, it no longer sparkled in his head after he had seen them for the thousandth time. He appreciated them still - the stained glass and false crystal swans - but wonderment had a way of dulling in his life faster than most. A lump of clay could just as easily be shaped into the same types of things, at half the cost, with better adornments being applied. But clay was cheap, and nobles hated not being able to flaunt their money.

It was insulting. To think a shiny bauble would make the King of Temeria sway in his judgment. The thought alone made him sour; Perhaps Foltest wasn’t the god he kept sculpting him to be in his mind. He was warned not to, but it was hard when he was the last bastion of refreshing magic in his life.

Behind him, Foltest chuckled as he continued to stare in disdain at the chalice. A master craftsman had taken molten sand and shaped it until it resembled a goblet, but with none of the generous flair or artistry. The lumps on it that pretended to be jewels looked like failed attempts for luxury and the base seemed ready to crack and fall over.

“You’re not impressed?” his King finally smirked, drinking rightfully from a hewn tankard. All he could respond with was a scowl.

“It’s ugly.”

“Now, Roche,” Foltest grinned. “Be nice.”

“What’s it for?” he continued, not heeding the advice. “No one expects you to drink from that, do they?” His Majesty only raised a brow, letting his expression answer the question. It left him shaking his head. “Is this for a political favor?”

“Political. Marital. All of it,” Foltest shrugged. “I’m a King, Roche. And my subjects enjoy spending their money.”

He glowered at that. “They should spend it on Temeria. Not lumps of sand.”

Foltest nearly laughed. “Yes, Vernon. Because dukes, duchesses, barons, and princes love to use their money for their country.” He took another drink. “Horses will ride men before any of them spend an oren on Temeria. You know that as well as I do.”

“It’s not right.”

“It’s life, Roche.”

“It’s not fair,” he emphasized. Foltest merely sighed as he turned his tankard in his hand. A good, sturdy piece of construction - and made from Temerian wood. What glass could boast that?

“Nothing in life is fair, Vernon,” he finally said. “If it was… Adda would still be alive.”


	20. Testing (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 19th, 2020.

“Sire,” he begged. “Yo-Your Majesty-!” The sensation was growing too intense and he couldn’t help himself as he dug the heel of his palm into his desk, his legs shaking as his King fucked him harder with his fingers. Each one pushing into his body, fitting in perfectly but not letting him savour the feeling before they withdrew enough that he nearly went insane. His thighs were trembled in delayed desire, his head growing light, and it took all his strength not to collapse, his throat tight as he held in a moan.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Foltest smirk, and it made him gulp, sucking down the neediness and deep-seated groans he was shaking to let loose. _He was testing him again._ It made him swallow and stare at the wall, his resolve wavering as he pushed in more, enough so he could feel where each finger connected to his palm. He needed to focus and keep quiet. That was the point of this - of his King bringing him to the brink.

Honestly, if he became a sobbing mess just from three fingers, what would that say about Temeria? He was trained in the art of torture, but if it was applied to himself, he needed to withstand it. And torture didn’t just include blood and metal tongs - sexual frustration could be an effective means. One he was beginning to learn he was weak to himself.

It made him clench his eyes, his nails digging into his desk as he forced himself to endure. A moan was the equivalent to a secret being spilled. Once the crack was made, it would be easy to burst it open, spilling out everything with it. It didn’t matter it was his King - Oh, fuck, _that made it worse_ \- and there was no rules on him stopping. The point was endurance, silence, and resolve. If he couldn’t handle this, it was unlikely he could handle any stressful situation.

“Roche,” Foltest purred and he shuddered, trying to create a hole in his mind to crawl into. His body was responding but it didn’t mean _he_ had to. “You’re shaking.”

He nearly whimpered but smartly held his tongue. He could overcome this trial. He had been tested by worse before.

It nearly worked until he felt his King press his mouth against his neck, kissing the open gap between his collar and jaw, making him flinch. He instinctively leaned away, but it made Foltest press in more, hotly nabbing enough skin to bite and suck on, and it finally dragged something out of him. 

He _moaned_. Loud enough that the entire castle could hear.

“Roche,” Foltest warned and he choked on it, trying again to find a center, but the crack was made.

“Your Majesty-!” he gulped, and Foltest pushed his fingers in deep, rubbing; Driving him mad. “I-I-!” Oh _fuck_ , he wasn’t made for this. “I-! I ca-can endure!”

_“Good.”_


	21. Company (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started July 22nd, 2020.

He found him in The Hairy Bear, of all places. Laughing with whoresons crowded around him as he scooped more dice into the worn cup, clearly unaware that they were loaded or that the men around him had knives pointed for his throat. To put it lightly, his company less than desirable, but then when did Foltest ever care about such things? He had his heavy cloak thrown over himself, his clothes plain and undyed, but he could tell immediately just by the way he carried himself that it was his King. He was much too enthused to be in the worst tavern in all Temeria, naive to the eyes lingering on him, his pockets too open and his trust far too palpable.

It made him reach down to pet his leg, feigning pain, just so he could slip another knife from his boot past his palm, laying it flat on his arm. Once could never be too careful when walking into a greedy fray, and if he was to protect Foltest, he was going to need every steel in his arsenal at his command, ready to shed blood; Ready to kill and cut.


	22. Machine (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 13th, 2020.

It was his first time witnessing the launch of a trebuchet. He had been skeptical at the start of such things; A feeling he wisely kept hidden. While his King boasted about their power mere months ago around a model, he had eyed the wood, frowning at the cracks. The mixture of both pine and spruce had made them seem too flimsy to launch anything but a small snowball, even at a reduced scale. It looked ridiculous as well, like a bundle of sticks slotted together to try and make something intimidating. But this was before he saw the fleet of engines that Foltest had commissioned. His siege weapons, as he called them. Made for breaking walls and spirits.

All in a row, each Black Ironwood machine seemed larger than a castle and their presence alone was making some of the soldiers nervous. He himself grew pallid looking at a single machine, its shadow longer than three ship lengths. It was one of the tallest things he had witnessed, and when the arm was brought back, his skin was flooded with nervousness. Nothing that large could possibly work. Even in theory it seemed improbable.

Foltest only smiled at his reaction, clearly sensing his discomfort. “You seem uneasy, Roche.” He didn’t reply. “Just watch,” his glorious King chuckled. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

He highly doubted it, but the counterweight was already being closed and the air around them grew thick with nerves and tension. More than just him were doubting the new war machines would work. Metal clacked as the arm was lowered, the sound of wood creaking filing the space between shouts, and he watched the soldiers scurry around like ants on a broken hill, pulling and locking ropes and levers, all listening to three men who stood around a scroll yelling orders.

The trebuchet groaned, like a beast waking, and he swallowed but stood firm. His King merely chuckled again at his pathetic reactions, readjusting his collar as he watched his the labour of his love be put into position. Only a single one was being armed for display, but it felt like if it succeeded, one would be enough for any obstacle. Physical, mental, and even political.

There was another shout - a bellow from the depths of a man’s lungs - and all the soldiers began to scatter, moving to the ropes as the trebuchet was loaded by a score of men, each looking as pale as the rest of them. The boulder they had pushed up the oiled ramp looked as large as a small village house, the sheer size alone being too much for any of them to comprehend. All of them but Foltest, who nodded in approval at the rock. As if they all could read his mind and understand why he was so calm.

Then there was silence.

It wasn’t unnerving, not like the pause before war, but it reminded him of how time seemed to slow when a battle was starting. Even in an exercise, the air was deathly quiet with men’s racing thoughts, and the tension spiked until it was palpable. Every one of them shared the same thoughts; All but his King. He said nothing - tried to think of nothing either - but his nerves cracked and he had to look to Foltest for clarity. To ground himself to where he was.

This would work. It had to. Temeria’s King believed it did.

What he caught instead of distant bemusement was his Lord and Sovereign looking right back at him, smiling so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled. It made his mouth grow thin, sweat forming on the nape of his neck, but he swallowed it down. He didn’t dare speak his ills - Foltest’s confidence was enough to dampen them slightly. His gaze slide back to his trebuchet and he had no choice but to follow and watch; To ignore his worries and logic and put utter trust in his king.

It took two breaths. One from him, and one from everyone else, before the signal was given. The rope was snapped and the engine groaned, and Roche dug his fingers into his palm.


	23. Intoxicate (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 13th, 2020.

The intensity had badly shaken him. It had been years since he had indulged in mindless ploughing. Whores and maids were always available, with noblewomen flashing assets to him in darkened corners to try and entice his lust. But despite it all - the wine and women and lace that clung to just the right skin - his tastes had grown more perverse as the years went on. He found himself craving something else than the bare bosom of a whore or milk skin of a chambermaid.

He wanted a feeling; Not false praise or honeyed words. He wished for genuine reactions. The older he became, the more he outgrew his previous favors, and no longer did high pitched cries from red lips make him shiver with delight. It became a quest that only he took tally of in his mind, until he had unlocked what he had been missing.

Loyalty. Subservience. Unwavering dedication to him. It was a powerful aphrodisiac, more so than the sight of soft curves; Adoration and unfiltered devotion left his throat dry than that of the hungry, greedy eyes of married women and trained courtesans. 

Everyone had their indulgences, each which changed as their owners did, but he had neglected his for too long. He lied to himself over what he truly wanted until it had finally clicked. Like a ballista being loaded into position. 

For a while, his lust had been priestesses - _forbidden_ \- before milkmaids had turned his fancy, long after Adda had been gone and Louisa had turned away his letters. They had roused him temporarily, each time failing to be as intense as the last, yet it was something to keep him occupied. A thing to chase. Smooth skin, fluttering eyes, gasps of shock and coos of praise. What man could resist?

Until the words ran hollow.

Then he had gotten drunk one night. Bemoaning his woes, cursing his seed, snapping at his Commander who happened to dutifully be by his side. His rants were not admonished, nor did Roche seem to care at his accusations and anger. He merely stayed by him, listening and loyal, and it struck a cord within him that lasted long after the hangover. He slipped up and took the bare invitation Roche had softly offered after a day of questioning and in that moment, everything had unraveled. He found out that night what type of man Vernon Roche was and how fierce his own lust ran.

What he really was craving was utter, blatant respect.

He had been seduced numerous times after and loved it each time. Even past the point when he knew he should be ashamed. Rumors could bring down nations, but every person had their own penitent wraiths clawing at their backs. He was no different. Why would Kings be exempt? But as he aged and the days grew longer and full of hevy rain and coming snow, he found he no longer cared. Was it wrong to crave an embrace? To want his hand to be kissed along with his boots? Did he not possess an entire nation whose life depended on him? Whose soldier needed him and who he craved back?

With that, he withdrew in the present, forcing himself to pull away from the wet, tight heat of his Commander, his prick continued to pulse and want for more. Begging to be allowed back to continue fucking the boy who lay spread on the sheets below him, sucking in ragged breaths of his own, his frame shuddering from the intensity of what they frequently shared. He was over-exerting himself, his harsh, dry swallows hard to keep down, and he fought not to look at Vernon as he rubbed his face, his flesh quivering and slick with sweat.

It was hard to tell himself no. To deny the pleasure that didn’t wane. Each time they met, the intensity only heightened, until he was dizzy with ecstasy and drunk on watching his Commander twitch and whimper with lust. How Roche said his name in a way that made him blush, even at his age. He wanted to possess him - to steal him away - but absence was needed between them. Otherwise he’d never recover and Roche would stop all functioning just to make sure he remained satisfied. How _fucked up_ they were.

Even so, while his temples pulsed and his mind made soft ‘tsks’, it was hard to ignore Roche’s deep groans of delayed pleasure, his fingers still stroking himself long after he had released. It made his sanity waver, his body aching and begging him not to continue lest his cock fall off but he had denied himself for so long it seemed impossible to not indulge. Three seconds he gave himself before he looked down; Gazing upon the sight of his Commander still lost in his own orgasm. Blissfully unaware of how much he was still tempting him as his chest rose and fell and his mouth worried his bottom lip.

_He_ had made him like this. Him alone. By the gods, it was beyond intoxicating.

Roche fought to keep his eyes open, his legs spreading more as he arched and fidgeted, chest rising in tune with his sudden pants, and he let his gaze fall between his thighs, to where his muscles were still shaking. Where oil and seed were now soaking into his sheets, permanently staining them with the aftermath of their lust. It dug at him, his hunger growing, and he couldn’t help but stare and watch, mesmerized by how Roche struggled to swallow small breaths and fisted the pillow behind his head as he gripped his cock tight one last time. He adored it - This. _Didn’t he deserve this at least?_

It was too hard to resist; The temptation burned on his tongue, and he leaned back over him to reach down and slip two fingers into his Commander’s already slick and open body. Roche’s eyes jerked open for a second, confused, before they fluttered and fell back into hazed lust when he realized what he was doing. How far his fingers sunk into his exhausted body and how willing he still was. It made him softly groan, drinking it in. They could live without sleep, couldn’t they?

“Roche,” he muttered, pressing back into him, the feeling still exciting even after months. They fit together strangely and badly, but he still enjoyed it. It was different. “Tired already?”

Vernon licked his lips, panting for a second before he squirmed, tempting him further. He needn’t have asked. “Your Majesty,” he moaned deeply. “That…”

He took the drawl for confirmation, stealing his breath away while limiting his own, and once again he felt like he was rising into the clouds, the high dizzying and melting at the same time, turning his mind into vapor. Roche understood - he always did - and when he pulled back, he moved forward, kissing at his neck before he was shoved down back into place. He didn’t shy away nor protest at the roughness. He merely reached between them, seeking his prick until he got a proper grip.

“Again?” he asked quietly. It wasn’t shy or coy. He asked because he just _knew_ him by now. Loyal even when exhausted.

“Again,” he agreed.


	24. Prized (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 23rd, 2020.
> 
> (If you ever see this, thank you again, Nultanol, for doing fanart)

He lifted him higher, making him grow rigid in his arms from shock. It was beyond uncomfortable now; They were too exposed. He found himself scrambling to make an excuse to be put down, to end it before it turned truly shameful, when Foltest’s mouth touched the dip where his neck met his collar. The small exposed hollow that made him turn from stone in his grip to a melting avalanche.

His heart pounded harshly against his chest as he stared at the wall, unable to comprehend it. How his King’s lips slowly moved up until they opened and curved around his Adam’s apple, kissing an area he never considered so vulnerable to such things. Immediately, he swallowed, a shiver racing down his skin and he felt the entirety of his monarch’s mouth against him. He didn’t _deserve_ this.

“Si-Sire,” he struggled for his sanity. “Your Majesty, I-I-”

Without hesitation, his King’s hand rushed up his spine, moving to grab the back of his head with a strong grip, forcing him to break off his sentence as he was yanked back. He exposed his neck, inadvertently making him stutter out a gasp in shock, and Foltest - The King and Ruler of Temeria - once again pressed a kiss to his trembling skin. Right where his pulse was. It didn’t help ease his thundering heart.

“Foltest,” he begged in complete helplessness. He could feel his control slipping as his bones hollowed and his muscles turned to slackened ropes - weak and useless. His tense stance buckled, and it took only a few more well placed kisses on his throat to make him collapse into his King’s arms. Foltest, in turn, said nothing but his teeth scraped against his jaw. Driving up the sharp line, following it like it was a clear cut road. Slowly he trailed up, letting him crumble deeper into his arms in fragility, until he turned and their lips nearly touched.

He breathed out first, ragged and feared, the effects taking over as he felt a frightening lust start filling his veins. “Your Majesty,” he pleaded one last time. He had to know how powerless he was in that moment. Every bit of him was shaking with tumbling emotion. “I-I’m…”

“Roche,” his King’s voice was strong, making him tremble again at his blatant display of instability. If he let go, he’s collapse without a word. “Stop talking.”

He couldn’t disobey _him_. With that, Foltest took his prize, his mouth pressing against his, smartly at first before it deepened, and he melted around him. By the time he added his tongue, he was fully draped around his King, his heart bursting in his chest as diamonds danced behind his eyes.


	25. Chastise (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 25th, 2020.

“Sire, they’re mindless-”

“Are they?” Foltest asked sharply, not letting him continue. “And what do you think of me? Am I the same as the Nobles you hate?”

It took him slightly off guard, making him nearly drop his chess piece. A quick glance up revealed everything - how his King was smiling at him but it never reached his eyes, his hands folded in his lap, observing him as if he was mouse attempting to sneak past a vigilant cat. He knew what he meant, but still was exerting himself over him for a point.

He misspoke. Once again, he took it a step too far.

Despite his feelings, the nobility of Temeria was far above him and he had gotten lax in his opinions. It made him withdraw, physically and emotionally, and his fingers laid nervous on the pawn before he slid it into position and slowly shrunk back. Foltest never took his gaze off him and he felt it, the hairs on his arms standing up. He didn’t know what to address first, but he knew the expectation. He had to say something or risk a real impasse.

Foltest was his King, not his damned companion.

His face coloured deeply as he swallowed, fixating first on his shame. “I apologize, Sire,” he began. “I didn’t mean-”

“Roche,” his King cut him off and it stung him all over. Again, he was proving a point - he was to obey. “I allow you certain freedoms because I can trust you. You know this, and so do I.” He let the statement stand - a pregnant pause between them. It didn’t help his guilt. “But if you don’t learn to hold your tongue, it will be ripped out at some point.” 

He sunk further into his seat, ashamed, refusing to make eye contact because he knew what he would see. He was growing disappointed enough with himself without needing to see it reflected twicefold in his monarch’s eyes. “I know your upbringing and your ideals on the world but, by Melitele, you need to ploughing think.” 

Foltest moved forward, his index and thumb taking hold of his King, and he firmly set it down in front of the pawn he had just moved. A fluid, steady notion; A solid statement he needed to learn. “You are a commoner and executable.”

He flushed in embarrassment, staring at the rug upon the floor.

“It’s _your_ move.”


	26. Cold Fires (Roche-Centric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 31st, 2020.

It had started in the night. He couldn’t pinpoint what time, but while he was lying in his tent, struggling to sleep, the first drops hit overhead. One turned to three. Then twelve. Then fifty. After a moment, he was listening to a whole cacophony of drips beat down against the woven canvas, soaking the lilies and banners, turning the outside into mud.

He listened without a thought, the rain doing the opposite of lulling him into sleep. He knew it was an old trick for others. The sound of rain soothed even the worst men to sleep when in their beds and skins, drowning out foreign noises, turning into what one would think was their mother softly singing a soothing song. Yet it kept him awake more than anything. As much as it was methodical, rhythmic, and constant, his eyes couldn’t shut in the dark.

Probably because it didn’t lead to memories of him being rocked against his mother’s breast. He only knew it as one thing; Pain. Living in poverty had the unfortunate wisdom of staying with a person, even past death.

It had been a long time since rain had come in the night, but it always had the effect of making him recall unpleasant things. The days when he was a soldier, peeling potatoes with frozen hands as rain soaked his uniform, the promise of hot food keeping him going. Using the thundering drops as cover when he was infiltrating a known hideout, his grip flimsy on his sword and his heart beating fast in his mouth. Letting the rain wash the blood off his hands after eliminating bastards and whoresons who tried to destabilize Temeria, the coldness not helping him remember how to be human after.

The moments when the dampness had come in when he was waiting for his mother, huddled under rags, his breath visible even in the dark. Unpleasantness. _Pain._

However, there were the times when Foltest called upon him when such things started. Light, dark, heavy, or sporadic. Rain never seemed to bother his King. It always was an excuse for him - for a drink, a laugh, and... a cover to provide for them both. When even fires couldn’t warm his King and he needed something else.

His eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling of his tent at the thought. Around him, distorted shadows danced, the brazier fire low but still flickering, and he watched them for a second, his heart softly aching. The emptiness of his bed would be forever now - there wouldn’t be anymore mugs filled with Temerian Ale to ply him to stay. _Sleep_. 

He missed Foltest. Gods, he _missed_ his King.


	27. Sleeping Dogs (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started August 31st, 2020.

He didn’t expect to find him asleep.

The sun had arched into the telltale sign of a summer midday, leaving shadows short and the heat stifling even within the shade. The air - lifeless and windless - hung, carrying with it the scent of the city; Ovens being cooled, forges being stoked, pollen wafting, soldiers sweating, dust settling, maids washing. It clung to the surfaces, making wood and marble condensate, and it left him seeking better conditions.

The lake was nearby, but with the amount of shit in it, who dared to bother? The best place was to do as a dog and seek better shade - Quiet places where no one would bother him.

It was how he found himself in the soldiers barracks. Midday it was deserted, lest his commanders and captains find a soldier shirking their duty. It was silent, with only dust motes softly drifting in the air, and he found himself looking through doors, his finger running over decorative plaques and ceremonial swords, before he came across the ranked men’s quarters.

Blue carpets atop straw, banners recently cleaned and tacked tight to the stone. Each of the numerous doors had their own adornments - ranked men would never again be mistaken for soldiers - and he passed each with amusement, pausing and judging, finding empty ink bottles cluttered in boxes and papers scattered over chairs.

That was how he found Roche; His only soldier still remaining in a closed room, even when the heat of the day was cutting through his paltry window. He was unarmed, under dressed, and surprisingly, unconscious. It had made him frown when he entered silently, the door not even giving a creak or shudder, and his Commander continued to sleep even as he stepped in, his quill tipping slightly in the bottle due to the draft, but remaining upright even after. 

How curious it was to see him in such a state. Vernon Roche. _Vulnerable_.

He was slumped in his chair, his head crooked back slightly, with his throat completely exposed as he took in soft breaths. Like a slumbering panther that had taken to sleeping upon a rock. He looked completely at peace, his chest rising and falling gently, and his lips were parted slightly, revealing a small cut on them. From sparring? Brawling? Accidental? Who knew.

It caused him to pause at any rate, his gaze curious on the sleeping hound - the bitch of Temeria - before his mind began to grin. What to do? It wasn’t often to see his Commander in a state where he looked human.

Instantly, a few snickering thoughts came. Little devils that still liked mischief, even at his age. He had not expected, or permitted, Roche to sleep like this. His job was to be ever vigilant. An extension of his secret ruthlessness and the shadow to strike fear into the hearts of those who dared defy and oppose him. What he was doing was insubordination, wasn’t it?

He could wake him - Violently. Smash a sword against his desk, slam a knife against the back of his chair. Maybe even kick it out and let him tumble to the floor. Wake him with a rudeness to remind him to damn well take his job seriously. A Commander was not a position he gave out to just anyone, and rarely was it given to whore’s sons. He had expected better from a _peasant_.

Yet the soft side of his unfortunate heart began to bubble, whispering over his irritation and cruel thoughts. Reminding him of who this was.

Vernon Roche.

His one last bastion of pure loyalty.

He took a moment to continue to study him, how the boy was slumped in exhaustion at a second glance. His papers were drying, the ink still vibrant and clean, and his fingers were stained and smeared from it. Hours worth of work had deepened under the nails, and he wasn’t even finished. The stack beside him - missives, orders, crude maps, even a budget measuring a few orens - lacked his signature and seals. It was likely he would be there late, maybe past midnight. Did he ever rest?

Was this all he allowed himself?

He moved to his side, letting his bare fingertips brush his neck, and Roche didn’t flinch. He remained lost in his slumber, a picture of contentment and harmlessness, his skin warm with a stuttering life as he breathed in gently like a lamb. Only a fool would assume that to be true.

He should leave him. His hound, his bitch. Whatever other names were secretly scratched into the underside of his desk.

Then again, no King could be truly merciful. And he was bored. _It was summer._

He stepped back, positioning himself, before he swiftly kicked the leg of his chair, rattling the entire thing and the bastard that sat upon it. In an instant, Roche snapped, and he woke like a wild, seething beast, his hidden knife ripped from where it had been concealed on his hip, his eyes pulsing in panic and anger as his teeth bared and his fingers drew into fists. Until he saw him. Then it collapsed and he blinked in shock, a slight quiver of anxiousness vibrating through his veins.

It shouldn’t be so amusing.

“Your... Your Majesty?” He fumbled over words, still in a state of reflexive shock. His fingers were shaking. He must have _really_ been out of it. “What-?”

“Vernon Roche,” he mused, cutting him off as he reached up to tap his lips. Only so he could hide the chuckle he wanted to give. “Sleeping on the job. Tsk. What would your betters think?”


	28. Spar (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 1st, 2020.

“I told you to dodge,” he muttered, dipping the cloth back into the bowl that now sported an unsettling colour of pink, the cloth soaking it in greedily before he wrung it out with an irritated force. Roche said nothing as he sat sulking, his fierce gaze directed at the wall, but his thoughts were so easily projected. He was angry with himself.

He tilted his jaw to the side, placing the cloth back across the wound his sword had caused, sighing for the both of them as he applied a hard pressure. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand his frustration. Every soldier - King or Man - knew when they had done wrong. Only this time, it wasn’t purely Roche’s fault. His footwork was still flawless, his grip firm and natural on his beloved sword, but he had failed to heed his warning. By the time he realized where his sword was aimed, it had been too late and he stepped into the slash, taking the right side from his cheek to his ear. Superficial, yes. It wasn’t deep enough to peel back his skin so that it flashed bare muscle, yet it had bit hard against the bone of his jaw. In time, it would heal and possibly scar, but there was no need to fetch the needle.

Except his wound could have been avoided entirely if _he_ had warned him sooner, couldn’t it? He could have damn well projected his intent.

It was unfair of him to become drunk on the fight. Too long since he had held a sword and was allowed to exercise it, the weight of steel so natural in his hand that he almost never wanted it to leave. It sang to him, like a siren song. Swords were just meant to be another limb on his body. 

But Roche was always agreeable to whatever he asked of him. Even if he wasn’t fit for it, he still would comply, and it reminded him he needed to learn restraint. Excitement did not justify danger. Cutting and wounding his men was poor not only in form, but in taste. What King would derive pleasure over defeating his own loyal men? He knew the point when he could have said something, but he wanted to win. He desired the victory. His sword needed it and so did he in the heat of the clash.

Slowly, he pulled the cloth away, looking at the cut, before seeping blood obscured it in an instant. Bubbling from various places along the slash. Again, he applied pressure, flicking his gaze to Roche, his heart heavy with guilt. His commander didn’t notice. He was absorbed in his own war. 

He had been glaring at the wall since he had sat him down, his face flushed with self-loathing and blame, his muddy eyes dark with self-deprecation. He caused the injury, but here was Vernon, taking it on as his own failure. Drinking deep from a goblet that wasn’t rightfully his - whether to lessen his pain or insecurity, he didn’t know. But it struck a cord with him anyway.

He had been the one to ask.

“Roche,” he decided to say, watching to see if he made movement that he heard. He saw his lips grow thin before they relaxed, indicating he was listening. “I’m sorry.”

There was a pause. Did he not hear? “I’m sorry, Vernon.”

No, he heard. Roche’s eyes widened in shock at the secondary apology, his head moving, and instantly pain crossed over his face, his left side twitching. He forced him back to the side, keeping his hand on his jaw as he did. “Don’t move!” he snapped. “Do you want this scratch to tear more?”

He said nothing for a moment. “Your Majesty-”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t - Don’t protest this, Roche.” He knew he would. They both knew. It was just the way he was. “Just… Accept what I say. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t seem pleased. Of course not - He never would. Because out of everyone he knew, Vernon Roche loved to tear himself down before he would ever think of blaming him. He would shoulder all of his flaws.

He was too loyal for the likes of himself.


	29. Roleplay (Foltest/Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 2nd, 2020.

He hesitated to say it even though he knew what the reaction would be. “You little tart,” he muttered, taking a moment to regather his thoughts. His guilt was nagging him deeply at this point. “You truly have no shame, do you?”

He watched Roche swallow, his eyes deep with a lust that threatened to drown them both. It made him fist his hair, yanking his head back, but the harsh cry he made once again distracted him. This should be easy, yet he found it harder than anything he had attempted before. He didn’t enjoy the torture - the pain - but he knew what it was doing to him. How Roche was arching back for him, straining on his toes, the bliss on his face painted on so skillfully that even the royal arts commissioner would be ashamed. He was loving it and it was hard to deny him.

He pulled harder, forcing him to make a staggeringly awkward curve in his back, and he stuttered on a gasp, his knuckles turning white on the table. He wanted to speak; To beg. Yet he refused him even that.

Even as his own cock pulsed and twitched in arousal at their play.

“Shut up,” he growled, swallowing his embarrassment and the demons in his head reminding him a hell did exist and he was surely making a bed in it. One made out of thorns and curses. “I haven’t given you permission to speak, nor will I, Vernon.” He ran a hand down his lithe side, feeling his skin shiver under the thin cotton fabric, pleading to be properly touched. Tempting him to shed their foreplay and get right into sheathing himself in his loyal scabbard. “Your existence is to serve. And I intend to make you.”

Roche gulped, his eyes rolling back, his fingers digging in hard to the polished oak, and he swore he could have released right there. Just from a few words - from being threatened, silenced, and punished.

He swore he wasn’t as the rumors said - Lustful, greedy, and dominating. He could control himself when needed. But gods damn him, it was hard to hold back when everything lined up to allow him to act as he wished. To take Roche and make him service Temeria. Have him sputter praises and honeyed words while a cock choked his throat.

Gods, they were fucked. Him, Roche, and Temeria all at once.


	30. Rumors (Foltest & Roche)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started September 4th, 2020.

He didn’t even knock as he came in, his footsteps like a storm crashing upon the walls of the castle. Quickly, he tried to rise, his bow awkward against his desk, but his King wasn’t having it.

“Who is she?” he demanded, ignoring his pathetic attempt to be submissive, causing him blink in confusion. First at his outburst, second at his question. He had no idea who his Lord was referring to.

“Who?” he asked, watching him pace, his skin prickling when Foltest shot him dark looks. “Ves?”

“No. No, Roche, I know Ves. I’m not stupid,” he snapped, clearly agitated by his response, and it made him frown deeply, the confusion forming between them palpable. Like copper pressed against the tongue. “The other. The blonde.” Foltest hesitated. “Your bitch.”

_Oh._

Instantly, he sighed, the weight of the statement hitting him like a Cintrian war horse. There was only one woman associated with him that fit that moniker, and it made his body grow tired. “Brigida.”

“Who?” Foltest demanded and he sighed deeply, sinking back into his chair as a headache formed in his temples. Gods damn him for even giving the girl a moment of his time.

“Brigida Paperbrock.” Foltest momentarily paused, his brows furrowing as he chewed over the name. “They’re minor nobles. No one to be concerned of, Sire.”

“No one to be concerned of?” he echoed. “Yet the word on the street is, you’ve taken a liking to her.” His eyes slid to meet with his. “Spilling your seed into her.”

Bitterness filled his mouth. Hot, angry, thick, and more importantly, seething. The copper was replaced with molten steel and he found himself glaring back at his King. _“What?”_

“Roche. Vernon,” Foltest snipped his name, making sure the tone hurt. “I don’t care what you do with your free time, but this-”

It was his turn to grow angry, the fury bursting from his mouth like an explosion of sparks. As if he had become a living forge, his temper the bellows. “I never touched her!” he snarled. “I wouldn’t-” His King glared at him and he found himself shrinking again. But he couldn’t back down. _Not when it was about this._

“Your Majesty, she’s an informant of mine. I couldn’t give a fuck about her otherwise!” He hesitated. “I told you before, I don’t care for…”

The King of Temeria still didn’t look pleased. “I’m aware of your tastes. Better than anyone.” He flushed at his words. “It doesn’t change the rumors. Nor the shit it’s bringing.” He paced for a second, his own internal fire working, and he pressed his lips thin. Gods damn her. No noble, no matter how insignificant, should be worth his time. 

Before he could think of any countenance, Foltest leaned over his desk, making sure their gazes met and couldn’t break. It made him realize how deep his eyes were. “This is the second time I’m having the court call for your head in a month. It’s growing tiresome.”

He went red. “Fuck them.”

“Not an option,” Foltest dryly smirked. “But you need to deal with this and these rumors of your false ongoings. A bastard peasant fucking a noble is a scandal in itself, but if they find out she’s working for you Roche, neither of you will have much privacy. And I don’t think I need to spell out what that means for us, do I?”

“No,” he licked his lips. _”No,_ your Majesty.”

“Good,” he rapped his knuckles on his desk, striking the wood in quick succession. “Then deal with it, my hound.”


End file.
